Better Hallway Vision
by UnicornPammy
Summary: Climbing up out of the pit of self hatred is hard...unless you've got four hands reaching down to help you up. New and improved Better Hallway Vision. Yay! Chapters 4 and 5 newly revised.
1. Considering Claire

**Better Hallway Vision**

**by UnicornPammy**

**This story, and occasionally my A/N's, contain profanity. You have been warned. : ) Have a nice day.**

**A/N:** This is yet another update of this story. Four years later, I'm still thinking about this thing, so I guess I ought to get it all out there and be done with it.

I'm going to post a newly revised chapter once a week. In the story summary I will note which chapter is the latest to be revised, so no one has to keep notes if they decide to read it. I don't want to take it completely down again and repost it because I don't want to lose all the reviews again. They really help me to keep focused, not to mention guilt me into continuing. Thanks to everyone who reads this and any of my other stories. It really means a lot to me.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything at all relating to The Breakfast Club (except a copy of the movie.) I just torture John Hughes's creations because it makes me smile. : )

**Chapter 1: Considering Claire**

Women were not to be trusted, only considered. John Bender had heard that statement from his dad about a million times since he'd first become interested in women. When he was twelve, Big Bender had found him making out with a girl in his room one night, and beat him nearly senseless after the girl had run away in fear and embarassment. From his vantage point-on the floor, lying in a pool of pain and blood and vomit-he'd watched his old man pacing and shouting, getting so deep into his misogynist tirade that flecks of spit sparkled on his lips. They trap you, he'd said. They lure you in, then they trap you. Don't trust them! If they tell you they're in trouble, you get the hell out of there.

He shook off the memory before it could go any further, burying it with years of practice. He pulled newer, better memories over the old ones. He was walking home through the twilight, and a real diamond sparkled in his ear. A woman had just given it to him, and he found himself wanting to trust her. He wanted to believe she would actually meet his gaze when they saw each other again on Monday. He wanted her to smile at him, to wave as he walked by her locker after third period, which was when he usually arrived at school, if he made it at all.

But maybe he would be there this Monday. He might even be on time. C'mon, Bender, it's just a girl, he told himself. Even girls aren't worth getting up at the ass-crack of dawn just to go to school. He had only shown up on time today because he'd wanted to get out of the house before his dad got home from celebrating his first paycheck in five months. As a general rule, Big Bender's company wasn't very pleasant; but when he walked in the house at 8:30 on a Saturday morning, still drunk from the night before, it was especially wise not to be around.

Hopefully, the old man would still be sleeping it off, or out doing it all over again by the time John got home. If his dad was at home getting plastered, John decided he simply wouldn't go in at all. Maybe he could crash at Weasel's place again. Weasel's generosity wasn't free, but Bender figured he had enough pot left over from the afternoon's festivities to secure a place to stay for the night.

Hopefully, it wouldn't come to that.

He cut through a couple of nice, well-kept yards, and leapt over a ditch. As he walked down the road, he heard a door open behind him, and some guy stepped out on his porch and started yelling about trespassing and calling the police. John hardly paid any attention. He heard shit like that every day. He kept going, and eventually the asshole shut the hell up and went back inside. He was in a neighborhood kinda like the one he imagined Claire lived in. _This is her world, and you don't belong in it. You'll never belong in it._

A cold breeze snuck up on him, silencing the inner voice as it stole down the collar of his ancient tweed trench coat, touching the same spot on his neck where she'd kissed him. He could still feel her lips on him, her warm breath moving over his skin, and for a few blessed moments the memory of her filled him like a hot sun.

But the wind kept blowing cold, and his father's voice came back to him. _Women are not to be trusted, only considered._

Well, he was definitely considering Claire Suzanne Standish. He'd seen her full name on her driver's license. Even her license photo was perfect. He imagined her sitting in front of her mirror, carefully applying makeup and doing her hair so that Claire Suzanne Standish would have the best driver's license photo in all of Shermer High.

He wasn't surprised that a preppy little bitch like her had caught his interest. She was just another tease, making promises with her eyes that her body wouldn't fulfill... not without a price. There was more behind those eyes, though, than he normally found in girls of her type. Most of them were so easy to fuck, practically ripping their clothes off once they'd snuck him past daddy and the housekeeper getting it on in the pool room. He'd seen the inside of a lot of preppy little bitch bedrooms, and they all seemed the same. Lots of pink and frills, posters of teen idols, and polaroids of college-age boyfriends. He never felt guilty doing other guys' girlfriends, because he figured those guys were doing the same thing with college-age girls.

The only rotten thing about being snuck into a rich girl's house is that he was usually obliged to sneak himself back out once the fun was over. Or climb down from a bedroom window if the situation became desperate. The price of rich ass was his pride, and he used to think it was worth it.

But now he realized that none of it really meant anything to him. All those other girls had ever given him was a temporary fix. He had never really taken Big Bender's advice when it came to women. He simply didn't bring them home anymore. But maybe the old man was right.

This one, though, would take more than a few nasty words in the back of a brand new sports car to get her to pull down her panties for him. Claire was different. Claire was...pure. That fact both intrigued and frightened him. He wanted to fuck her, and protect her, and protect himself from her all at the same time. If they had been alone at this morning's detention, he may very well have accomplished the first thing on that list. And that scared him. She was clean, and he would just make her dirty. He found himself wondering if her purity would rub off on him somehow. And at the same time was filled with the certain knowledge that he was dirt, and would always be dirt.

But he knew that wouldn't stop him from having her, eventually, and he hated himself for it.

He turned the corner onto his street, reaching up with his left hand to touch the diamond, still not quite believing she'd given it to him. He wasn't stupid enough to get anywhere near Big Bender with a rock that big visible on his person, so he pulled it out and shoved it in his pocket.

It was dark enough now that most homes had lights burning in the windows, but his house was completely dark. That could mean any number of things. His mom was still at work, his dad was still passed out, or they still hadn't paid the light bill, and the electric company finally decided to cut them off. His house always reminded him of a rotten tooth in an otherwise perfect smile. The yard was a mess, the front door sagged from its hinges—had since the night he and his mom had tried to lock Big Bender out. But the old man just busted down the door and beat the crap out of both of them, anyway. The paint was peeling, and the gutters had little trees growing in them. The other houses on his street were neat and well-kept, if not huge and expensive. Their house was the cancer of Maplewood Grove Lane.

He decided to go in through his bedroom window, since Big Bender always passed out in the living room at the front of the house. There was a crawl space instead of a basement below the house, so he had to jump up to grab the window sill. By planting one booted foot against the tree that grew beside his window, he was able to free one hand to push up on the wooden frame.

It wouldn't move. He tried again, with the same result. He _never_ locked his window. Someone else had to have done it. His mom might have locked it, but he had a strong feeling that it was Big Bender fucking with him. He dropped back down to the ground, trying to think of any other alternatives.

"Where've you been, you little shit?"

The rough, liquor-soaked voice was close in the darkness. His head jerked around, and he could just barely see a white, paunched-out, wife beater t-shirt moving toward him. John backed up, not wanting his old man to get within arm's reach. Even drunk, Big Bender had a mean right hook.

"What, are you deaf, or just stupid? Answer me!" He stumbled a bit, righting himself awkwardly. John took a few more steps backward.

"School."

His old man snorted. "Now you think I'm stupid, don't you? It's fucking Saturday. What were you doing at school on a fucking Saturday?" He moved closer, his right arm raised menacingly.

"Cheerleading practice."

Big Bender took a swing at him, but John was ready. He dodged to the side, and his dad stumbled from the force of his own momentum. John slipped past him, shoving at Big Bender as he did so. Then he bolted back toward the street. Before he had swung up and over the neighbor's fence, he heard furious spluttering from the ground behind him. "You little...Goddammit, fucking cocksucker! Get your ass back here!"

Looked like he was destined for Weasel's couch tonight.

"Get your ass back here now, or you better never come back! I'll fucking kill you if you do, you stupid, worthless, no-good son-of-a..."

Big Bender's voice faded into the evening as John ran. _Fucking pussy,_ his dad's voice snarled in his head. Barbs of self-hatred pierced his lungs, but he just ran harder, still hearing Big Bender's voice, faintly echoed off the houses around him. _Fucking pussy_ became the rhythm of his strides, following him all the way to Weasel's.


	2. Stick to Your Guns

**Title:** Better Hallway Vision

**Chapter Summary:** Brian, before and after detention.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything at all relating to The Breakfast Club.

**A/N:** Brian is the character I relate to the most. I really enjoy writing about him. I hope it shows.

**Chapter Two: Stick to Your Guns**

_Friday, before Detention_:

"You messed up, kid, it happens once in a while." Allen Johnson's hands were tight on the steering wheel as he lectured, belying his outward calm. Brian felt the same, sitting quiet and sullen in the passenger seat of the beat-up red station wagon, but inside, his heart was pounding. He couldn't believe he'd gotten caught. At least his sister wasn't there to help him get his ass chewed. She really seemed to enjoy it. And at least his dad wasn't quite as shrill as his mom could be. When Diane Johnson hit her stride, she climbed those octaves like a staircase.

He sighed and leaned his head against the window, only half-listening as his father droned on about responsibility, and not letting his mother down, and not letting other kids put things in his locker. He'd never lied to his parents before, but he'd rather lie to them for the rest of his life than let them know that _he_ had taken the flare gun from the trunk of his parents' car, and _he_ had put it in his own locker. Because he had been considering taking his own life, because he got an F in shop class.

Apparently, lies come back to bite you in the ass. Once he'd spouted off his bit of nonsense, his mom had gotten on his case, grilling him about who had access to his locker combination, who had keys. He'd made the mistake of telling her that only the main and assitant principals and the janitors had keys. She jumped right on the janitor theory. Brian tried to calm her down, saying that none of them would do that; he was even friends with one of them, and Carl was a really nice guy.

"A janitor!" she screeched. "You're friends with a _janitor?"_ Then came another long spiel about "no wonder your grades are falling"-falling? He hadn't even told her about the F-"no wonder you're getting detentions. You're friends with a janitor! Well, you better stop associating with him, you better stop _speaking_ to him, or so help me, I'll..." She went on with empty threats, the same ones she always used. No more TV, no more going out, no more using the car. They were empty because he never did those things, anyway. A familiar pressure had begun in his chest at the start of her diatribe; recalling it now, he caught himself rubbing his sternum. Whenever his mother laid into him like that, he felt like he would explode if she didn't shut up soon.

It wasn't so bad right now, with his dad talking to him about it. His dad was calm, reasonable, but he continually stressed the part about not "letting your mother down." No one should let Diane Johnson down, or so help her, she'll...something. Crack wine glasses, or something.

And then there was his dad's old stand-by: "Think about your future, son." Brian kept his gaze directed out the passenger side window, afraid that if his dad looked at his face, he'd see the thoughts roiling behind it. _I almost didn't have a future, Dad. My own mother makes me want to kill myself._

Mr. Johnson pulled into the driveway, and Brian was out of the car before the engine even quit. He slung his book bag over one shoulder and went into the house, heading straight for the stairs. He could smell something garlicky cooking in the kitchen, and his sister's patented circular-breathing chatter came from the same direction. He hurried upstairs, hoping to avoid another confrontation with his mother. But she must have heard them arrive, because she came into the living room just as he reached the top step.

"Where are you going, young man, without even a hello for your mother?" Brian paused, frustration making him clench his right hand into a fist. The pressure started. He just stood there for a moment, until he had a tight clamp on his emotions. Then he plastered a fake smile on his face and turned around. She was standing with her arms crossed, an oven mitt on her right hand. She had an angry expression on her face, but she also looked a little hurt. With a guilty sigh, Brian went back down, kissed her on the cheek, then climbed the stairs again.

"I'm going to study some before dinner, Mom."

He could feel her triumphant smile burning into his back. "Good boy. And I better not catch you reading any of that… that aliens and robots crap. How can you get into Harvard if you read that awful stuff?"

"Yeah, Harvard," he murmured, going into his bedroom and closing the door behind him. He dropped his knapsack by his desk, and hung up his jacket on the back of his door. His room was very neat, almost obsessively so. Two full book cases lined one wall of the small rectangular room, with his bed and nightstand taking up the opposite wall. His desk faced out the only window in his room, beside which he had tacked the Harvard pennant his mom had given him when he was a little boy. _Would Harvard accept you if you had an F?_

There were more books lined up on his desk, along with a cup of pens and pencils, and a stack of spiral notebooks. His notebooks were labeled with all his different subjects in black magic marker. He sat down at the desk and pulled one out from the middle of the stack. It said "Triganalysis" on the front. He opened it and flipped through the pages until he came to the next blank one. Then he grabbed a pen from the cup and started writing.

_Friday, March 23, 1984_

_4:26 pm_

_I couldn't do it. Now I've got detention because it went off in my locker. When I told them yesterday, they went apeshit. Especially mom. What else should I have expected? I let her down. She'll probably have a stroke when I tell her about the F. That goddamn elephant. It makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time. I almost did it because of a ceramic elephant. I almost killed myself..._

_It feels strange to actually write it. When I think about it, it's just an idea. It's a concept. It's ... rest. But when I write it, it slaps me in the face. Suicide. And yet, even when faced with the reality, I almost still want to do it._

_Heh. I can see it now. A coffin, some flowers, a cheesy picture of me up on an easel, and mom crying into a black handkerchief, saying, "If only he'd studied more, this wouldn't have happened." Then dad would put his arm around her shoulders and say, "I'm sorry our boy let you down, Diane. Maybe Lisa can get into Harvard."_

_Then Lisa would be asking for my room._

Brian put the pen down and chuckled, then he leaned back in his chair. Letting his head fall back, he placed one hand over his eyes. After a few moments, tears slid down to his temples and into his hair, tickling his ears. It was never going to end. He let himself wallow in self pity and hopelessness for a minute or two; then he took a deep breath and sat up straight again, wiping his face with his sleeve and rubbing at his eyes. He shoved away his emotions, and decided to forget his life for a while. Going over to his bookcases, Brian studied the well-worn spines. Each and every one, he had read at least once. After a few moments of indecision he grabbed a paperback at random and went to his bed. He flopped down into his favorite reading position, on his stomach with his chin propped up on a pillow. With a bit of surprise he saw that he'd grabbed Joan Vinge's _Psion._ He'd only read it once since he bought it almost two years ago, a rare purchase of a new book. He usually only bought books from the used book store, but this one sounded so good, he couldn't pass it up and risk forgetting all about it by the time it appeared at Secondhand Stories. Brian remembered enjoying it, but not much about the story.

He reached over to his back pack and pulled out a random text book—history—and placed it next to his pillow. He opened it to the chapter they were currently reading in class, ready to look like he was studying in case his mom decided to look in on him. Then he opened _Psion_ and started reading. Soon his life fell away as he became totally absorbed in the characters and the plot. He fell asleep reading, never hearing his mom call him for dinner.

_Saturday, after Detention_:

The red station wagon was waiting for him. He took a deep breath of the late March air, and it felt sharp in his lungs. Despite that, he felt better than he had in a long, long time. It was such a good feeling to know that he didn't _have_ to be perfect. He could just be Brian. And today, he could tell his mom about the F, because it didn't matter anymore. That kind of stuff just wasn't that important.

His dad was silent as Brian climbed into the passenger side of the station wagon. Mr. Johnson looked tired, and Brian couldn't remember the last time his dad had actually had a Saturday off. There were bags under his eyes that hadn't been there five years ago. His dad was a supervisor at a steel plant, on his feet at least eight hours a day, most of the time more than that. _Maybe that's why mom wants me to go to Harvard. So I don't become my father._

Allison had said none of them could help it, that it just happened. You eventually became just like your parents, and there wasn't anything you could do about it.

_Mom thinks Harvard is my only ticket out of Shermer_.

_But w__hat if I don't want to leave Shermer? _He glanced over at his father, weary and older than his years. But every day he did it: he got up and went to work. He did it for his family. There was nothing wrong with that. Brian was suddenly struck by how proud he was of his father. Especially since he knew his dad had had other plans before Brian was born. He knew from family conversations overheard on holidays that his dad had been going to college to be an architect. He didn't know what had derailed those plans, but he used to find drawings and layouts of houses in his dad's office in the basement.

"Come on, son," Mr. Johnson said before slamming the driver side door and going toward the house.

Brian was so lost in thought, he didn't even realize they were home. He hauled himself and his books and thermos out of the car. On the way to the door, he thought about detention, about the things that had been said that afternoon, and what those things meant to him. He was worried, unsure if they were all still going to be friends come Monday.

But he forgot all about the detention as he walked through the front door, and saw his mom waiting for him. His dad was standing beside her, looking slightly confused and very worried. Diane Johnson's face was pale, her lips pinched and white. Her blue eyes burned cold fire at him. Silently, she pointed to the couch. In her hand she held a notebook, neatly labeled in black magic marker. He didn't even have to look at the title to know which one it was. Brian felt the pressure crowding into his chest again, making it hard for him to breathe. He went to the couch and sat down.

_She knows about the F, _he thought. _Oh, god, I'm not ready._


	3. The Lonely

**Better Hallway Vision **

**by UnicornPammy**

**A/N: **Blurble.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything at all relating to The Breakfast Club.

**Chapter 3: The Lonely**

Allison rinses the last of the soap from her face. She looks in the mirror. She's never thought, before, about the interesting contrast created by her pale skin and dark eyes. With her hair still tied back from Claire's makeover, she really sees her face. As a whole, not just an unhappy mouth and half-hidden eyes. She's almost mesmerized by what she sees. Is there really beauty there? Beauty. The word itself is not beautiful, is not one that conjures up happy thoughts for her. It makes her think of striving for something she can never achieve.

She wonders if she can go to school like this on Monday. She wonders if anyone would notice, or care.

She is afraid, afraid of Monday. She wants to see Andy, to see her friends. But she is afraid that they will not see her, anymore, just like before. Ironic, since she has worked very hard to become invisible.

She reaches for a towel to dry her face. Claire's moisturizer is in a small glass bottle with delicate lettering. "A girl's best friend," she had said. Allison uses it, remembering Claire's words: "Just use a little bit at a time. You don't have to put it all over your face. After you use your cleanser, scrunch up your face, and wherever your skin feels tight, that's where you put the moisturizer. That helps it last a lot longer, and keeps it from clogging up your pores."

Allison applies the moisturizer like Claire instructed.

She pulls the scarf out of her hair, and the messy weight of it falls over her face. _So this is what silk feels like_. Allison slides the slippery fabric through her hands. It's like water woven into cloth, pliant and draping. She caresses her cheek and her lips with it, loving the sensation of it against her skin.

With regret, she knows she has to give it back. She sighs, thinking of all the things she has pilfered. But this took no skill, it was given to her.

She turns off the bathroom light and crosses the hall into her bedroom. She stands by her bed for a few moments, thinking. She turns around and lets herself fall backward onto it. She lies there, spread-eagled, still thinking.

Why had Andy kissed her? Was he just messing with her head? _It's plausible_, she thinks. _And barbaric._ Kind of like taping somebody's ass-cheeks together. It is so Andy, and yet, not Andy. Not the Andy he revealed to her today. Not the Andy who wouldn't rest until he'd pried out of her what was wrong, what has hurting.

_Fuck this,_ she thinks suddenly.

It makes her sad and scared to think about it. And angry, too. What is so wrong with her? What is _wrong_ with being different? She knows she is awkward, and strange, and she likes being that way. Usually she has a "screw anyone who can't handle it" attitude, but it seems like lately that means screw _everyone_ because _no_body will talk to her. She's tired of being alone, of being so freaking _lonely_. It was nice to be able to talk to people, and to have them listen. And also to listen to other people interacting and know that she could participate in the interaction if she wanted to, instead of just observing as she has always done.

She rolls over with a sigh and grabs her sketch pad off the nightstand. Intending to draw a group portrait, she starts with Andy. Somehow, she can't get past him. She draws his face a dozen times, his different expressions and emotions. She starts with his mask. That's what she calls the face he wore when he first walked in, the face that doesn't care about anything. It's the face he shows to his friends and his dad, probably, and his coach. Maybe even the face he shows to himself most of the time.

But from the moment he started opening up to her in the hallway, that face started to melt away. The mask crumbled, moment by moment, to reveal the real Andy underneath. He is different than what everyone thinks of him. He isn't just an athlete, just a "racehorse," as he put it. He is a real person. Even if no one else sees it, Allison does. And she likes what she sees. She can still feel the strength of his arms as he held her, and she pulls the sketchbook into her chest, hugging it. She wants to feel that again. Wants it so bad that it is a physical ache in her stomach. If he doesn't, if he won't, she doesn't know what she will do, how she can continue to live.

She feels as if she had been sleeping, and Andy breathed life into her, only to take her breath away again with a kiss. She finds she likes being alive, and she wants more. More breaths, and more kisses to take her breath away. It is only natural.


	4. Claire's Consideration

**Better Hallway Vision**

**by UnicornPammy**

**A/N:** Here we go, on to miss Claire. Not my best. She's hard to write well, I think. Claire is so multidimensional, and a lot of people try to pigeonhole her. It's difficult to find a happy medium between her self-confidence and her self-pity, her snobbishness and her follower attitude. I have done my best, and that's all we can do, right?

**Disclaimer:** I don't own blah blah blah anything. I'm poor. Leave me alone.

**Chapter 4: Claire's Consideration**

He tasted like cigarettes and Coca Cola.

Her mother was stone-faced as Claire lowered herself into the white Mercedes. Claire couldn't keep the smile from her face. Alicia was already annoyed by their kiss. She said a cheery hello to her perfect blonde mother, then settled down in her seat, reliving her memories of the day. Of course, her mother couldn't leave her alone for two minutes, especially not when she seemed happy.

"Where's your earring, Claire?" Alicia Standish vamped. "That's not what I saw you giving to that boy, is it?"

Claire's hand flew to her ear in mock surprise. "Oh, no! My earring! No, I wasn't giving John my earring, I was giving him my phone number." She bit her lip. "Dad is going to be so upset that I lost one of the diamonds he gave me."

Alicia pinned her with piercing green eyes. Claire stared back, her expression one of innocence and confusion.

"What?"

"Claire Suzanne, I swear to God, if you're lying to me..."

"Mom, why would I give someone I've just met a diamond earring?" She found it hard to keep up the false cheer around her mother. The woman's constant waspishness was grating.

"You don't give someone you've just met your phone number, and you don't kiss them either."

Claire rolled her eyes. "Why do you care?"

Her mother sat in frigid silence, silence that lasted all of fifteen minutes, just until they pulled into the driveway. After Alicia quit the engine, she turned in her seat to face her daughter. "You're not to see that boy again, do you understand? I will not have you embarassing this family."

Claire didn't answer, just made a disgusted noise and got out of the car. Alicia did the same, following her up the neat slate walk to the front door. "Don't walk away from me, young lady! Your father may let you walk all over him, but when I tell you to do something, you'd better listen." She caught up with Claire inside the large two-story foyer, grabbing her arm and spinning her so they stood face to face. "You are not-"

"Don't touch me!" Claire snapped, jerking her arm out of her mother's grip. Immediately, Alicia slapped her across the face. Claire was so surprised she couldn't speak, only put a hand to her throbbing cheek. She had never in her life been struck, not once.

"Listen to me, young lady." Alicia put a manicured claw in her face. Claire noticed that, ever-so-slightly, her mother's hand trembled. Was she really that angry about this? "You will NOT associate with that boy any more. He's a criminal, and a miscreant, just like his father."

"How do you know anything about his father?" Claire said, still breathless with shock.

Alicia straightened, a superior smile curving her lips, and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. She acted as if she'd just scored a point against Claire. "He's one of your father's pro bono cases."

"He would never defend someone like that."

"They went to high school together. They used to be friends. But all your father has left for him is pity." Alicia's stance changed again, her arms uncrossed. She was trying to loom over Claire, even though they'd stood the same height for almost a year now. "And that's all you should have for his son."

Claire's anger burned hotter with every word Alicia uttered; she hated being bullied, and more than that she hated what her mother was implying. When Alicia said the last part, Claire didn't even think. She heard a sudden loud smack, and her right hand was stinging. In disbelief, she lowered her arm, and stared at the reddening mark on her mother's left cheek. Her eyes widened, and she took a step backward. Her rage dampened as she felt the blood leave her face. "Mom," she whispered, her voice filled with horror at her own action. "Oh, Mom, I'm so sorry."

But there was no assuaging Alicia Standish's fury. Her face flushed with anger while her green eyes turned to ice. Even though Claire knew it was coming, she couldn't seem to get out of the way soon enough. The second blow landed in the same place as the first, while Claire turned her head to lessen the impact. She winced, gingerly holding the left side of her face as her eyes teared up. She glanced at her mother, a vision of Hell's fury in Coco Chanel. "Go to your room." Her voice was tight, strained, like she was hanging onto herself by the very threads of her self control.

Claire was stunned and afraid, and could only do as her mother told her. Her rage began to grow again as she climbed the stairs to her room, and she slammed the door behind her. She was breathing in rough, ragged breaths, overwhelmed by what had just happened, not understanding anything except that she'd never seen her mother so worked up over something like this. Covering her face with her hands, she sat on her bed, trying not to cry, simply because she knew it would hurt too much. Her cheek was throbbing. Finally she stood and went into her en suite bathroom, running a soft pink washcloth under cold water. She twisted out the excess and held the cloth lightly against her face, then went back into her bedroom to lie down.

How could her dad do that? How could he defend someone who beats up his own kid? She remembered the burn scar John had shown Andy. "_This is what you get in my house for spilling paint in the garage_." How could anyone do that to their own child? And how many times had he gotten away with it...because of her father?

"Oh, my God," she said aloud. "If John ever finds out, he'll hate me."

Then she sat up, moving the cloth away from her face, placing it on her night stand. "What if he already knows?" Was he just toying with her to get back at her dad?

No, no, he wouldn't do that. He wasn't _like_ that.

_How do you know, Claire? How long have you known him, about 9 hours? And how many girls were in his wallet?_

She remembered sitting there, watching him "brush" his teeth with her eyebrow brush as she went through all the girls' pictures, feeling jealous of every single one of them. Each of them had had a piece of John Bender, or so he wanted her to believe. _I want more than just a piece, though,_ she'd thought. _I want all of him, all to myself._

She flopped back onto her bed, gazing up at the Jon Bon Jovi poster she'd tacked over it a few months ago. She felt so juvenile suddenly for having it up there. "I've got it bad for John Bender. I want him so much, I'm even thinking about taking down my Bon Jovi poster." She rolled over onto her right side, one arm hanging down over the edge of her bed. "What's wrong with me?"

A sarcastic little, it's-about-time voice whispered, _You're becoming a better person._

_A better person? That's corny,_ was her next thought.

Claire lay there for a while, then picked up the wash cloth again and rolled back so she could stare up at her favorite male singer, trying not to think about Monday, or her father. She pressed the cool terrycloth back to her throbbing cheek, her thoughts returning to that sarcastic little voice. _Ok, so what about today makes me a better person?_

The answer came with a mental sigh. _You're finally ready, and willing, to put someone ahead of yourself. Now matter how scared you are of the immediate future, you know that you won't-no, more like you _can't-_-ignore John Bender. You want him to be happy, Claire, and you want him to be happy with _you_._

_Yeah, maybe you're right, _she thought.

With a little chuckle, she realized that she was holding a conversation with herself. _I wonder if this is what it feels like to be Allison. _She laughed at herself, surprised that being like Allison didn't automatically register as a bad thing. Following on the heels of that was the realization that she genuinely _liked_ the four other people she'd shared detention with today. She liked them, and she wanted to be friends with them.

_But I'm afraid. I'm still afraid of being associated with them. What am I going to do?_

The voice in her head spoke up again. _Be a better person._

But it wasn't that easy.


	5. Strengths and Weaknesses

**Better Hallway Vision**

**by UnicornPammy**

**A/N:** Here's Andy. When I went back over everything to see what needed fixing, this is the only chapter in which I didn't change anything. I just read through it, and when I reached the end, I just thought, wow that's really good. Lol. I don't need to change anything. Sweet! I remember that it took me so long to finish this one. I just couldn't get it down in one cohesive little Andy vignette. But I guess I finally did, because it's my favorite of the first five. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

**Disclaimer: **A blood curdling blah blah blah, yackety shmackety. Don't sue! I have no monies!

**Chapter 5: Strengths and Weaknesses**

Sweat dripped into his eyes as he finished a fourth circuit of his neighborhood block, which had a perimeter of about a mile. It stung, and blurred his vision, sending porch lights swirling in a greasy yellow smear among the darkness of night. He wiped the sweat away on the sleeve of his sweatshirt, glancing at the familiar street around him. His house was in an older, less ostentatious section of Claire's neighborhood.

He knew that a lot of kids at school thought his family was better off than it was. He wished they were; maybe then his old man wouldn't have such a hard-on for him to get a wrestling scholarship. People thought he was a richie, but he wasn't. It's just that most of his friends were. And when he told anyone that he lived in Wyndhurst Manors, that pretty much sealed the deal.

Unfortunately, from here on out, he didn't really know who his friends were, or who they would be when Monday managed to roll around. He and Claire, they were the ones expected to ditch the other three. But he'd said he wouldn't. _And I will not._

That day's detention had made him think, made him realize that there were many different kinds of strengths, and many different kinds of weaknesses. He was strong, but he was also weak.

His dad had always taught him to think that strength and weakness could be measured by how much weight you could bench press, or how long or fast you could run. How fast you could pin your opponent and win a match. If that were true, then Andy would be a very strong person.

_But I'm not. I can't think for myself, or make my own decisions. I've never really asked myself what _I _want._ He suddenly felt that his dad had brainwashed it into him that he wanted to be a wrestler, and go to some Big Ten school that would let him in for a song and a dance around the circular mat.

_Is that what I really want, though?_

_I don't know._

One thing he did know was that he needed to start thinking for himself. He could see Allison's face in his mind: pale skin, dark, burning eyes, messy black hair, and a sad mouth. Damn, that mouth of hers and the things that came out of it...bitten-off fingernails, interesting lies, outrageous truths... Her mouth was what he liked best about her. Her lips, her crooked front teeth, the way she talked and the things she said. Even after Claire's make-over, her mouth was still her most interesting feature. He could just see it better.

_What do they do to you?_

_They ignore me._

God, what he wouldn't give to have his father ignore him...

When his dad had picked him up earlier that day, he'd read him the riot act.

"What the hell was that!"

"What?"

"That girl! Did she just take your_ Championship Patch?"_

He remembered how red his dad's face had suddenly become, and how, as he continued yelling, spit had started to fly from his old man's lips.

"Well, yeah..."

"Well, you better get it back!"

"Dad, it's just a patch. It's not like I don't have the trophy at home."

"Just a patch! We worked our asses off for that patch!"

"No, I worked _my_ ass off for that patch. You just stood on the sidelines yelling, 'You big pussy, can't you hold him better than that!' So I think I can give it to whoever I damn well want!"

...was what he wished he had said. Instead, he had simply nodded, unable to say anything.

Andy punched the air a couple times as he ran, trying to work out his frustration. It was almost as if he couldn't think while he was sitting still; he had to be moving to figure things out. _How do I keep from having to take my patch back? _He remembered her eyes, dark and lonely the whole afternoon. But then, after they had kissed and she'd ripped the patch off his shoulder, she'd seemed to come alive. She was suddenly bright and confident...and so _goddamn _sexy.

But he knew that it hurt her to her core to be dismissed, and he knew also that he couldn't do that to her. He would never be able to look her in the face again if he did.

_Andrew Sebastian Clark, you really are a pussy if you hurt her like that._

_I don't want to hurt her._

_But then, I didn't want to tape Larry's ass-cheeks together, did I? But I did. Because of dad. And now he wants me to hurt Allison. But I'm not gonna do it. I'm not...gonna...do it, _he thought, his feet stomping down with each stride

He decided to run just one more lap, and call it a night. Dinner would be soon, and he realized he was starving. But he didn't want to face his dad; he knew one look at his old man's scowl would chase all his determination away_. But I can't let that happen. I can't let him control me anymore._ Picking up speed, he finished his run with a sprint. He allowed himself to walk a bit, cooling down, letting his heart rate drop. When he found himself staring at his own front door, he realized he didn't want to go in. He wanted more than anything to be back in the school library, just talking to people who actually listened. Despite their clashing, Andy thought that he and Bender might be able to get along. And he could definitely be friends with Brian. That kid was so honest and vulnerable. He made Andy feel like an older brother, which was an odd feeling because Andy was the youngest in his family. Of course, he and Claire were already almost friends. It wouldn't be too much of a stretch to start hanging out with her.

And then there was Allison... It wasn't his first kiss, but he'd be comfortable placing a large bet that it was hers. The way she had kissed him was timid and slightly unsure. At first she had held herself stiff and rigid in his arms, but as they kissed, she had relaxed. And just when he was getting warmed up, she pulled away, and ripped the patch off his shoulder. As if she were inviting him to come get it back. But he knew she would take it the wrong way if he asked her to give it back. It would be the death knell of a barely budding friendship that could be so much more.

Andy paced around in front of his house, hands on his hips, breath steaming in the cold evening air. He didn't want to go in. He didn't want to face his dad. He felt almost as if the old man would see his thoughts on his face. He would know that Andy had decided not to ask for the patch back.

He'd never defied his father before. He'd talked back a few times, but his dad had always taught him it was a bad idea, usually with his belt. Jason Clark was hard on his boys, but Andy felt that there was a difference between his dad and Bender's. At least his dad had never left a scar on him. _Nothing physical, anyway._ He knew that his dad considered physical discipline distasteful but necessary, and he'd never go as far as John's dad had obviously gone. Even though Andy wasn't a huge fan of his father, he'd still felt a bit resentful when John suggested their dads should get together and go bowling.

Andy looked up at his house, knowing he had to go in sometime. So with a deep sigh and a troubled heart, he trotted up the driveway. _Will he notice that I'm different now? That I'm not the same Andrew I was this morning before getting out of the truck?_ Would his dad think it was a good thing, or a bad thing, that he was no longer a neanderthallish thug who jumped helpless geeks and put tape on their hairy asses? He almost cried thinking about it, because he knew that no matter what happened, now or years from now, his dad's opinion of him would always matter. He would always care about it. And he wanted his dad to be proud of him.

_Just because I don't want to live under his thumb doesn't mean I don't love him, or want his approval. _He ran a hand through short, sweat-damp hair, his other hand on the door knob. With a deep, fortifying sigh, he opened the door and went in. He looked for his dad, found him in the den. "Hey, dad..."

His old man was watching college basketball, the Fighting Illini against Ohio's Bobcats. "Yeah?" he said, not turning away from the TV.

"Dad, I wanna tell you something." Andy was trembling, his heart was pounding. And his dad wouldn't even look at him.

"Yeah, what?"

"Dad, I want to quit the wrestling team."


	6. Hell On Wheels

**Better Hallway Vision**

**by: Unicorn Pammy**

**A/N:** Yay, more John! Woot. Just as a little precaution, John and his friend in this story use foul language and call each other names. A lot. It annoyed me a little when I read it over about the twentieth time, but it also is how I would picture these two treating each other. So I left it. I don't really see John treating his friends with any kind of respect.

This is an exciting chapter for me, because it introduces someone who wasn't in the movie, not even mentioned. Someone who came from my own little brain. Yay.

Anywhoo, enjoy. As always, talk to me, people. I need your inputs.

**Disclaimer: **Blah! I'm poor. Leave me alone.

**Chapter 6: Hell On Wheels**

John woke up to blinding sunlight and a monster headache. He was disoriented at first, but it didn't take him long to recognize the water-stained ceiling above him, or the yellowed, peeling wallpaper that hung from the walls in strips. He moved his face away from the sun pouring in the one small, dirty window, and sat up. Four mounds of dirty clothing and tangled hair filled up the small floor-space of the living room/kitchenette with him; John was glad he'd shown up early enough to get the couch.

His coat was still wrapped tightly around him from the night before; he looked down at his feet to make sure he still had his boots. People learned early not to leave any of their shit lying around Weasel's place, because it was usually gone by morning. So many vagrants and junkies came and went from the tiny apartment; it was also a haven for many kids who found they'd be better off not going home at night for one reason or another.

He swung his long legs off the couch and stood up, making his way across the room to the kitchenette; he had to step over two snoring piles of clothes to get there. The stove and sink were piled high with food-crusted dishes and pots and pans. He tried not to look at them, his stomach suddenly turning sour. When he opened the ancient refrigerator, all it contained was a jar of watery mustard and Weasel's insulin.

John didn't even open any of the cabinets, not really hungry anymore. Instead he felt claustrophobic, almost nauseous. He turned around suddenly, feeling like he had to leave as fast as he could; he stumbled over someone's leg on the way out. Whoever belonged to it cried out confusedly, but John didn't stop to make sure he or she was all right. He wrenched the door open and slammed it shut behind him, cutting off groggy cursing and shouting from inside. As he descended the rickety stairs to the street, he gulped the outside air in huge breaths, trying to rid his nose and mouth of the stink of rot that had pervaded the apartment. When he reached the sidewalk, he braced one hand against the brick building, feeling as if he was going to be sick. But the feeling subsided, and he straightened, running a shaking hand through his hair.

_C'mon, Bender, snap out of it. You've spent the night here a thousand times. What makes you too good for your friends all of a sudden?_

Angry at himself for being such a stuck-up pussy, he faced into the wind and started walking, ducking his head and jamming his hands into his pockets. Something sharp pierced the sensitive skin of one of his fingertips, and he yanked his right hand out to look at it. A bead of bright red blood was forming on his ring finger. He sucked on it for a few seconds, then dug around in his pocket to find whatever had stabbed him. Memories rushed through him when his fingers found the diamond earring. He pulled it out and looked at it in the sunlight. Multicolored light flashed back at him, and he felt a half-smile form on his lips. He put the earring back in his left ear. That small bit of pain, and the subsequent flood of memories helped to clear his mind. The last of the claustrophobia slipped away, leaving him feeling lighter than he had in a long time.

Whistling some random riff that was floating around in his head, John started off down the street, heading for Shermer's small downtown area. All he passed on the way were ugly brick buildings that offered cheap, run-down apartments, and a convenience store or two. It was pretty quiet in the middle of a Sunday morning, and this day was no exception. Occasional cars crept down the 25 mph street, though he figured their lack of speed had more to do with mornings-after than following the rules.

Shermer's downtown was an oasis of high-end shopping in the middle of the slums. There were boutiques, restaurants, specialty grocery stores, a four-screen theater called the Movie House, and a customization and general repair garage. John made his way to the garage, Hell on Wheels. It was squeezed in between an African gift shop and an Asian grocer. The four huge bay doors were closed, and there was no normal-sized entrance in the front, so he slipped down the alley beside the gift shop. As he neared the rear of the building, he started to hear muffled music. When he got to the chain-link fence enclosing the large back lot behind the garage, he could make it out. Unfortunately.

"Pussy's listening to Def Leppard," he muttered as he hauled himself up and over the fence. When he dropped down on the other side, he noticed there was only one car in the lot, and that was the owner's dark red '69 Mustang. But there was something else back here besides the equipment shed. It was covered in a tarp, and it was very large. It had the general shape of a muscle car, but that didn't mean anything. It could just be the wrecked body of a Maverick, or something else equally wussy. His curiosity was piqued, but he'd have to wait to find out what it was. Dante had probably hidden a rabid dog under there, in case anyone decided to take a peak. John certainly wouldn't put it past him.

He used an old, dead credit card to open the back door and slip inside. Only three of the garage's four bays were taken up; usually the place was full, with five or six cars in the lot out back waiting for attention. But it was Sunday, and the garage was closed, and not too many people wanted to leave their precious vehicles there overnight.

Raucous music blared at him from the open door of the tiny office, and he could see "Hell" himself sitting behind the desk, doing paperwork. Occasionally the guy would belt out lyrics from Def Leppard's "Photograph" as he punched numbers into a calculator, then recorded them into his ledger. The sign on the window of the office said "Hell On Wheels," with flames engulfing the word "Hell." Below it was "R. Dante Heller, Proprietor." Dante was short and wiry, dressed in a mechanic's jumpsuit. His ever-present bandana was on his head. John didn't even know what color his hair was. Not that he was ever really curious; the fact just startled him a little.

John snuck up to the office, then reached one hand in and knocked loudly on the open door. Dante jumped, startled, then scowled when he saw Bender in the doorway. He turned the music down. "Mother_fucker_, you little prick. Trying to give me a heart attack?"

"Only if I'm in your will, Roger."

Dante made a face. "If you keep calling me Roger, you won't be." He turned back to his work. "Why the hell'd I ever tell you my first name, anyway?" he muttered to himself.

"Cause you were stoned off your ass, I think."

"I won't repeat that mistake again."

"So what's under the tarp out back?"

"A 1937 Rolls Royce."

John's eyes got big. "Really?"

"No, not really, shit head. It's just an old junker I bought to fix up."

"Yeah, so what is it?"

Dante looked up from his work, a shit-eating grin on his face. "That's for me to know and you to find out."

"You son of a bitch..."

"Yeah, so go home, I don't have any work for you today. Come back tomorrow."

"Aww, c'mon Hell, I've got school tomorrow."

Dante just looked at him for a few seconds, then busted out laughing. "Yeah, yeah, pull the left one, the right one's bad enough already. Since when do you go to school?"

John looked slightly embarassed, and tried to cover it up by acting nonchalant. "Gotta go sometime; otherwise, I'm never gonna graduate."

Dante cocked an eyebrow at him. "I thought that was the point. C'mon, Bender, I'm closed today. I can't pay you on a day when I'm not making any money."

"What about that supposed piece of shit out there? I could work on that."

"_That_ is mine. The last time you got near one of my projects, you put oil in the radiator."

"That was five years ago! I was still a kid!"

"Yeah, and from what I understand, seventeen is the age of wisdom."

Dante's sarcasm made John roll his eyes. "I promise I won't put oil in the radiator this time."

"Where _are_ you gonna put it, with the windshield wiper fluid?"

"I'm gonna dump it over your head if you don't show me what's under that tarp."

Dante laughed. "Flattery will get you nowhere, my friend."

At that point, John's stomach let out a fierce growl. Dante gave a resigned sigh. "Let me finish up this column, then why don't we go out and get an early lunch."

"Hey, I don't-"

"I know, I know, you 'don't take no charity.'" Dante imitated John's tough-guy voice. "We'll call it an advance on your next job, how's that?"

John gave a half-grin. "Yeah, I guess that'll work."

When Dante felt he'd come to a satisfactory stopping point, he stood up from his desk, his movements slow and painful. Rubbing his right leg for a few moments helped to ease some of the aching, but he grabbed his cane anyway.

"You're getting old, Roger."

"Shut up, Johnny, I'm not even thirty." Dante got his jacket from the back of his chair, then followed Bender out of his office. He winced with each step toward the back door. As they walked out into the sunshine, Dante looked up, spotting a single, little unassuming cloud in the sky. "It's gonna rain today."

"Yeah, and my ass is gonna sprout a diamond. You're so full of shit."

"Nope, I can feel it in these old bones. Hey, and it looks like your ear sprouted a diamond. I guess that's close enough to your ass."

John flicked him off as he lit a cigarette. "Fuck you, Roger," he said, the words escaping on a cloud of smoke.

Ignoring him, Dante tossed John a set of keys, then unlocked the driver's side of his Mustang. John went over and unlocked the back gate, swinging it open so Dante could drive through. Then he locked it again and got in the car. Dante stared at him expectantly.

"What?"

"The keys, juvenile delinquent. The keys." He held his hand out.

John smiled and handed them over. "Sorry, didn't think you'd notice."

"My leg is crippled, not my brain, dipshit."

Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting in a diner a few miles east of downtown, one that served breakfast all day, as well as burgers and chili. John plowed through a double cheeseburger and fries, while Dante ate his eggs, bacon, and toast a bit more sedately. Dante had the sleeves of his jump suit and underlying work shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing the red dragon tattoo that snaked down the inside of his right forearm. Its jaws were parted, and a feather of flame licked at his wrist.

Their waitress walked up with a pot of coffee. "Wanna refill, Dante?"

"Sure, Nita, thanks."

"What about you, kid? Want some more soda?"

All John could do was nod as he stuffed his face. Dante gave a wry laugh. "He says yes, please. Thank you."

Nita chuckled as she walked away with John's glass. She brought it back a minute later. "Let me know if you guys need anything else."

Dante nodded as she went away again, then waited until John had finished his burger and was starting to attack his fries before he attempted conversation.

"So, how did it go with your old man last night? Was he in a good mood about getting paid?"

John shrugged, his features hardening into a mask of anger.

"He was just great. Locked my fucking bedroom window so I couldn't get in. Then he tried to smash my face in with a beer bottle."

"Well, you seem to have escaped intact."

"Don't I always?"

Dante shook his head. "Not always."

There were a few moments of silence while John ate his fries.

Finally, he said, "Yeah, well, it's been a long time since he could get the better of me."

"He's still bigger than you, though."

"And I'm still faster than him."

"Just be careful, John."

"Hey, don't worry bout me, Roger. I've been doing fine on my own for a long time now."

"I know that. I'm just trying to watch out for you is all."

"Don't puss out on me, man." John glared across the table.

"I'm not pussing out on anybody, you little bitch." He jabbed a finger in John's direction. "I'm trying to help your ass, which is more than you can say for yourself."

"I can take care of myself."

"Yeah, noticed. That's why you smell like you slept in an alley last night."

"No, Weasel's."

Dante rolled his eyes. "Close enough. If you needed a place to stay, why didn't you come to the garage? And where'd you get the rock, Bender?"

John ignored the first question, just gave him a little half-grin. "Not telling."

"Bender..."

John cackled, knowing it irked Dante not to know where he'd gotten it. But way down deep, in a place that still cared about other people's opinions, it hurt him to know that his best friend thought he'd stolen it.

"John..."

"Don't call me John."

"Don't call me Roger."

John just snorted.

Dante sighed and leaned back into the booth, propping one arm up along the back of it. "Just finish your fuckin' fries."

When they were done, had paid up and left a tip, they exited the diner and piled back into Dante's 'Stang.

"So what's under the tarp?" John asked.

Dante grinned devilishly. "Not telling."

"Now who's being a bitch?"


	7. Nothing Wrong

**Better Hallway Vision**

**by: Unicorn Pammy**

**A/N: **Well, I must first apologize for taking SO goddamn long to post these last two chapters. It took me like half an hour to edit them to my satisfaction. I really have no excuse, except that work is hellatious these days. It completely saps my energy for doing things I enjoy MUCH more. I guess I should also mention that my relationship isn't going so hot these days. It actually ended for about a day, but then we decided we'd be apart for a while, just to get out of each others' faces and breathe for a while. I had moved out and lived with my grandma for a while, and now I'm living at my apartment and at my granny's about half and half. I have no clue if we're going to get back together, and I don't even know at this point if it's what I really want. But, I'm trying to be optimistic. I think I'll cheer myself up by torturing innocent John Hughes characters. Wheee!

I really like this chapter because it introduces another one of my original characters, someone who is going to change Brian's life. I based her a little bit on me, but mostly she sprang forth from my imagination like Athena from Zeus's head, fully formed and with a life of her own. I love those kinds of characters. Her development within the story will probably be kind of slow, so please bear with me.

As far as Mary Sue's go, I don't really know what one is. It sounds like a derogatory term, so I hope my character is not one of them. I just want more people in my story besides those who were in the movie. Shoot me. Read! Now!

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, no money, no legal action. Pwease?

**Chapter 7: There's Nothing Wrong With Me**

All Brian could think about as he lay in bed finishing the last chapter of Psion was his mother, crying. He could barely concentrate on the book. He had let his mother down. He could see it in his dad's eyes, before the guy had even known what was going on. His sad, tired father had turned sad, tired eyes on him, and those eyes had told him all he needed to know. You've let your mother down, son.

He closed the book, but he couldn't remember the last page at all. He could remember his sister, though, crouched on the bottom step, invisible to their parents, whose backs were to her. She looked frightened, pale, confused. The way she'd clutched at the railings holding up the bannister reminded Brian of a prisoner in a cell. It made him think of all the times he'd compared living in this house and in this family to being in prison. He felt so trapped, so confined. The pressure his mother had him under felt like wearing a heavy, wet blanket on a hot, humid day in the middle of summer. Suffocating him. He could never breathe. He could never unshoulder his responsibilites for even one Saturday.

He glanced over at his desk. His pile of neatly labeled notebooks was shorter by one. His mother felt some strange need to keep the one he'd labeled Triganalysis, but had really been his journal. He should have known that a notebook for a course he'd finished the year before would be kind of suspicious in a stack of current ones.

What made her decide to go through his stuff, anyway? Sudden anger flared up inside him. Wasn't it enough that he got perfect grades (most of the time), was near the top of his class, and never got into trouble (well, except for the flare gun)? Wasn't it enough that he studied EVERY GODDAMN DAY, and never complained about it, and never talked back (ok, so he corrected her grammar sometimes)? Did every single piece of his life have to belong to _her?_ Even his _thoughts?_

Brian thought about Lisa again. Even though she was a pain in the neck, he wished he could get her out of here before she became their mother's next project. He wondered what plans his mom had in store for her. Princeton? Yale?

She wanted him to be a doctor. Rolling over onto his back, he stacked his hands behind his head. Dr. Brian Ralph Johnson. He let out a humorless laugh. Yeah, _that_ had a nice ring to it. Even his future belonged to her, it seemed.

He wished he could get angry at her. _At_ her. In front of her. That pressure was building in his chest again, just from thinking about it. So he tried to think about something else; but all he could see was her face, wet with tears. She'd held up his Trig notebook after he'd taken a seat on the couch yesterday, shaking it at him. "What is this!" she'd shrieked. "What is this, Brian?"

"It's my-" he began softly.

"What?" she snapped.

"It's my journal," he said, louder.

She opened it to a page she'd apparently marked, and began reading.

"'Monday, March 19, 1984.

I found a gun. It's not quite what I had in mind-'" here, Brian remembered them all laughing at him because he'd intended to kill himself with a flare gun, "-but I guess it'll have to do. I'm going to put it in my locker, and wait until Friday's pep rally. Maybe I'll go back into the woods behind the school.

Only a complete dork would want to do it at school. I guess that's what I am. Of course, only a complete idiot gets an F in shop class. I guess I'm one of those, too."

She closed the book.

"Oh, my God," his father whispered, lowering his head into one of his hands.

Her eyes filled with tears, spilling over onto her cheeks every time she blinked. She didn't seem to notice. "When have we ever taught you that taking the easy way out is the right thing to do?"

"Never."

"What?"

Louder. "Never."

"Then why, _why_ did you think you had to _kill yourself_ over an F?"

Lisa gasped behind them. Without even turning around, Diane yelled, "Lisa, go to your room!" The little girl ran upstairs, and they heard her bedroom door slam behind her.

"Why, Brian?"

The pain in his chest had started, that stabbing pressure behind his sternum.

"Because-"

"What?"

"Because I'm tired."

"Of what?"

"Of-"

"Of what, Brian? Speak up!"

"I'm tired of-"

"Of what!"

_You!_ he'd thought. _I'm tired of you!_

"Studying. I've been studying so much. And I tried so hard on that stupid elephant, and the light still wouldn't... I got so tired, I just...I just wanted to sleep."

She stared at him for a few moments, her expression fierce. Fiercely what, he couldn't tell. Angry? Sad? Guilty? No, guilt was a lot to ask of his mother.

His dad hadn't moved, still covering his bowed face with one hand. Brian thought he saw a bit of wetness on his dad's cheeks.

Then his mother sighed. And as she breathed out, she seemed to deflate. "Go," she said quietly. "Go to your room. Your father and I need to discuss this."

Without a word, Brian stood up and walked slowly past her toward the stairs.

"Brian..."

He'd stopped. Turned around. And suddenly his mother was hugging him, hard. He realized for the first time that he was taller than she was. Funny; in his mind, she was a giant.

She pulled away, holding him at arm's length. "I love you. You're my only son."

He opened his mouth to say something, but for the first time, his brain wasn't spilling over with words. His thoughts were silent. There wasn't anything to say. He just nodded and kissed her on the cheek. Then he went upstairs.

When he had his hand on the doorknob, he heard Lisa's door opening. He turned, and she had her head poking out of the door.

"You wouldn't really do that," she whispered. "You wouldn't really kill yourself, would you?"

Brian shook his head no.

"Good," she said. After a moment, she asked, "Can I borrow Narnia again?"

Brian smiled slowly, sadly, then nodded. "Sure." She smiled back at him, then darted across the hall, into his room, and came back out again with the precious boxed set under her arm. She disappeared into her room, closing the door behind her.

Brian had then gone into his room, and shut the door. He let his backpack fall off his shoulder, grabbing the strap at the last second so it didn't just crash to the floor, and left it beside his desk. Without even taking off his jacket, he flopped face first onto the bed, feeling so guilty, he almost wished he _had _killed himself. He fell asleep in that position, and didn't wake up until the following morning.

Where he was now, lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling. At least he'd taken the time to remove and hang up his jacket.

_God,_ he thought, placing one arm over his eyes. _What do I do now?_ After detention, he had been fully prepared to tell them about the F. But he had _never_ intended to tell them about wanting to kill himself. That was something he didn't think they needed to ever know. But since his mother had gone snooping in his room, that decision was taken away from him, and all he could do was deal with the aftermath. Step one: find a better hiding place for his next journal. Step two: get a new journal.

But how would he deal with his parents? He didn't go downstairs for breakfast. Now it was past lunch time, and he was getting pretty hungry. He looked out the window; dark clouds had replaced the bright sunshine of the morning, and rain was threatening. Somehow, that seemed all too appropriate.

An idea struck him. He sat up, his heart pounding as he considered what he was about to do. He started moving. Over to the door to grab his jacket, then back over to the window, unlocking it and lifting it, then pushing his desk away from the window a bit so he could climb out. Sticking his head out, he looked down. The height was a bit more than he'd expected. He knew that if he went out feet first and dangled from the bottom of the window, he had a good chance of not breaking one of his legs. Brian glanced back at his bedroom door. Was getting away from his mom for one day worth risking a broken leg?

He landed hard in the perfectly trimmed grass outside. His only thought as he got painfully to his feet was that one day of hanging around John Bender was one day too many, if the next day he was sneaking out. Something he had _never_ done by the way.

But he just couldn't face his parents right now.

After getting a hot dog at a nearby convenience store, Brian had started walking without any destination in mind. That turned out to be a bad idea, because now he didn't know where he was. He'd taken so many random turns, that he couldn't remember how to get back to somewhere familiar. And on top of that, it was now raining. Not hard, but steady.

Somehow, he felt very liberated.

The houses had slowly gotten bigger and bigger the farther he'd walked, and now they were huge. He was definitely in the wrong place. But he wondered if maybe he was anywhere near where Claire lived. Maybe if he could find her, she could drop him off somewhere close to home. Of course, he had no clue what her house looked like.

Brian made another random turn. The houses down this street seemed smaller than the ones on the street before. As he kept going, the houses got smaller and smaller, until they looked like normal houses. Like Brian's house. He felt a bit more comfortable walking down this street, but he still didn't know where he was.

He heard footsteps behind him. As they got closer, he heard laboring breaths. It sounded like someone was running away from something. Running as if their life depended on it.

_In Shermer?_ Brian thought. _Nothing's that exciting--or cliched--in Shermer._

Brian moved off the pavement so the runner could go on past him without having to change course. _Mom's going to kill me if she comes upstairs and I'm not--_

Something heavy plowed into him from behind, and suddenly the ground was rushing up toward him. He landed hard on his hands and knees, thankful that he'd moved off the road and into the grass. There was a thud and a pain-filled grunt as someone landed on the ground to his right.

"Are you okay?" he asked, looking over. A girl lay there, a familiar girl, one from his school. She was panting hard, her eyes were shut, and tears were streaming down her face. It looked like she had landed on her side, and had rolled onto her back. Her arms were bent so that her hands were up by her head. She didn't seem to have heard him. He quickly glanced down her body, checking for wounds or blood. She looked okay. Why was she crying?

_Maybe it's just the rain._

"Are you all right?" he tried again. Eyes the color of the dark, angry sky snapped open and met his, and all the anguish in the world poured out of them.

"Yeah," she said, her voice hoarse and trembly. Brian watched her try to smile, but it was fake, and made her look even sadder.

"Let me help you up," he said, standing and brushing himself off before offering her his hand. She accepted, getting slowly to her feet. Her long brown hair hung in a messy pony tail, and the right shoulder of her _Last Unicorn _t-shirt was ripped where she'd fallen on it.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to run into you. I just wasn't looking, I guess." With her palm, she wiped some of the moisture off her face, leaving a light streak of red on her cheek. "I hope you're not hurt."

Brian looked down at the knees of his jeans. They were a bit muddy and grass-stained, but otherwise intact. His palms were stinging, and the right one was a little bloody. Must have scraped it when he fell. "I'm fine," he said, which wasn't really a lie. A little blood wouldn't kill him. "But I think I got some...I mean, I think there might be some blood on your hand, or something. And some of it got on your face."

She looked down at her palm, and more tears filled her eyes. She wiped them away with the back of her hand. The gesture was an angry one, as if she were mad at herself. Or at someone else, for making her cry. He wished he could make it stop. He hated seeing anyone cry.

"Um, are you okay? I mean, did something happen? To make you cry, I mean?"

She shook her head, sniffling. Then she lifted her chin, and fixed her gaze at some point over his shoulder. "I'm fine." Her voice was a bit stronger, and her features, before so sad and hurt, now hardened into a mask of...nothing. She looked as if she felt nothing. "Sorry I ran into you." Then she turned and trotted off, resuming her run as if nothing had happened.

But something had happened. Brian didn't know what it was, but it made his heart race as he watched her run off. Her form was graceful, in control. Her ponytail swung with her stride. Soon she was turning a corner, and out of sight. But he could still see her eyes, dark gray like a thundercloud, pouring tears like rain. He wondered what it was that had made her cry, and wished that he could make it all right. The pain in her eyes, though, had run deep, making him think that it wasn't something simple, like a fight with her mom. Maybe the end of a relationship?

A little demon in his head wished that was what it was. And he could swoop in and pick up the pieces.

_What am I thinking? I don't even know her name. I've seen her like, ten times since the beginning of the school year._

Brian wondered briefly if maybe Claire knew her. He instantly decided no. He didn't think she was the type of person Claire would hang out with. She acted like a loner; she was certainly adept at closing off her emotions when she wanted to. And her clothing wasn't fussy at all. Just a t-shirt, and school-issue gym shorts. Her shoes looked old and well-used. She hadn't had any make-up on. And to tell the truth, she had looked awful, and she'd seemed unselfconscious about that.

So...maybe Alison knew who she was, simply because she seemed to know everything about everyone. All she did was snoop and eavesdrop.

"Brian!"

He jumped, then spun in the direction of the familiar voice. His dad was in the red station wagon, looking harried and angry and worried. His brief bit of freedom was over. He glanced back to where he'd last seen the girl. She was gone, and he almost wondered if she'd even existed. "Brian!" He tore his gaze away from the turn in the road where she'd disappeared and got into the car. His dad turned the wagon around, and headed back the way he'd come, not saying a word to Brian. He was thankful, because his thoughts were full of _her_.

When they got back to the house, his mom was waiting in the living room. She looked like she was about to have a coronary. "Where were you! Why did you sneak out!"

"I just needed to take a walk."

"Well, you could have let us know! I was about to call the police. Brian, what's happening to you? First wanting to... And then running away!"

"I was going to come back, mom. I was just walking."

"I'm going to nail your window shut! The first thing I thought when I saw it open was that...-" she couldn't finish. She burst into tears. Brian's dad went to her and put an arm around her. Brian started for the stairs, wanting nothing more than to be alone now.

"Wait, son," he heard his dad say. Brian stopped, and turned. His dad gestured at the couch. "Come over here for a second."

He did, sitting on the couch again, getting a horrible feeling of deja vu. Not really noticing that he was getting the couch wet. Mr. Johnson helped his wife to sit down, then looked at Brian with a mixture of sadness and determination. "Son, we decided that we want you to...see someone."

Brian's brow furrowed, the horrible feeling growing stronger. The pain started in his chest. "See who?"

His mom wiped her eyes, calming down a little. "A psychiatrist."

"A what? Why? I don't need a psychiatrist!"

"We just want-" his dad began.

"I'm fine, okay? I don't need to see anyone. I'm not going to kill myself. Okay? I'm not...there's nothing wrong with me!" He found himself standing, panting as if he'd just run a six-minute mile. He didn't remember getting up.

His parents looked at him like he had an alien standing over his shoulder. They'd never seen him like this before, angry and defiant. He took the opportunity of their shocked silence to escape to his room. He slammed the door, took off his jacket and threw it down. The pressure that had been building in his chest for the past couple of days was released suddenly as he vented his anger. He knocked the cup of pens off his desk, scattered the stack of notebooks to the floor. Spotting the Harvard pennant, he ripped it off the wall and dumped it in the wastebasket next to his desk. He knocked his books off the bookcases, whole shelves at a time.

There was a knock at his door. "Brian?" It was Lisa's voice. His adrenaline-fueled anger ebbed, and he stood in the middle of his room, panting, pens and notebooks, novels and jacket at his feet. Had he done this? Shock held him in place for several heartbeats. In a daze, he walked over to the door. Instead of opening it, though, he thumbed the lock and sat down with his back to it. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he wrapped his arms around them and let his head fall forward.

_There is nothing wrong with me._

_There is nothing wrong with me._


	8. Wall Ghost

**Better Hallway Vision**

**by UnicornPammy**

**A/N:** This is the first chapter to feature more than one TBC character at a time. I'm eventually going to move away from one character per chapter, because that's boring. I had fun with this chapter. It's the longest one so far, and I hope I've kept everyone in character.

The Andy/Allison thing isn't always my favorite, but I do like the very steady quality people tend to give their relationship. I find it satisfying to write about.

**Disclaimer: **Clyde is mine! You can't have him! All others are not.

**Chapter 8: Wall Ghost**

Allison ripped down sketches and prints, neither noticing nor caring where they landed. She'd only meant to clear off a portion of the wall, but found herself pulling down every scrap of paper she could reach. Then she started sketching the outline on the wall itself. Her hand flew, smudging and shading, working furiously. Occasionally she would take a step back to check her perspective, but she didn't stop, she didn't rest.

Finally, when there was nothing left to detail, nothing left to highlight or shadow or fix, she stopped. She looked. She tilted her head one way, then another; then she shook it. It wasn't enough. It wasn't REAL enough. She tossed away her pencil in frustration, then went over to her closet. She opened the door and felt around the dark interior for her box of paints. Debating over acrylics or oils, she finally decided on oils. They took longer to dry, but they looked a lot more realistic.

She chose her colors, squeezing them out onto a stained palette. Then she got her brushes.

Allison painted, of course, slower than she drew. But she didn't exactly take her time. Oils were frustrating, because normally you have to apply a layer, and let it dry, before you went on. But she didn't stop. She felt as if she couldn't, or all her work would disappear.

At one point she was frustrated because she couldn't quite get the right color blue. It was too dark, but when she lightened it, it was too light. Finally, she added a touch of green, and it was perfect.

When she was done, she laid her palette and brush on her paint-stained dresser. Then she looked. And found she couldn't breathe. It was him. He was beautiful. Full-size, lifelike. Absolutely beautiful. Without even knowing she'd moved, she was suddenly right in front of him. Raising on tiptoe, she placed her hands on either side of his face, and leaned forward, not caring that she was about to kiss wet paint. Her eyes slid closed, her lips parted.

Warm arms came around her, and warm breath slid over her cheek. A mouth she had tasted once before came down on top of hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck, running her fingers up through the silk of his hair, holding him close. Refusing to let go, or to open her eyes.

* * *

Allison fell back into the real world reluctantly, clutching a pillow, buried beneath piles of blankets. She tried to hold onto the dream; she could still feel his presence, his arms around her, his lips on hers. She could even feel his heartbeat against her chest.

Finally, she opened her eyes, sighing when she saw the sun shining in through her window. Allison closed her eyes again, refusing to accept the fact that it was morning, and time to get up, for a few more minutes. When she did get up, the first thing she did was pick up his sweatshirt from where she'd left it the night before. She buried her face in it and breathed in his scent: laundry soap, clean skin, and a subtle, intriguing cologne.

Oh, God, she was getting sappy. She hated that anyone could get to her like this. She hadn't been joking when she'd said she wanted to run away. But the only way she could was if there wasn't anything here she cared about.

_Too late._

Allison sighed, blowing the hair out of her face. Nothing she could do about it now. She tossed Andy's sweatshirt on her bed, then started getting clothes together so she could take a shower.

She stopped moving; she had this prickly feeling on her neck, like someone was watching her. Her heart started pounding, and she couldn't tell if she was afraid or excited. She turned, slowly, anticipation building in her chest. And there he was, staring at her from her wall. Not the painting of her dream, but the sketch of his face she had done last night before getting ready for bed. Dropping the clothes in her hand back onto the floor, she moved slowly to the wall. With an odd feeling of deja vu, she placed her hands on the wall on either side of his portrait. She started to lean in, but stopped. She couldn't do it. This wasn't a dream. He wasn't going to suddenly be there, and wrap his arms around her. And kiss her. Allison knew she had a wild imagination, but it couldn't sustain _that_ big of a fantasy.

Feeling a bit angry at herself, she turned away from his picture and snatched her clothes up off of the floor again, going out of her bedroom and across the hall to the bathroom. After showering, she got dressed. She hadn't really paid attention to the clothes she'd picked up off the floor. It didn't matter what she wore...not until tomorrow, anyway. There was very little chance she'd run into Andy at the art store today, which was where she was planning on going.

After looking at herself in the mirror, she decided maybe she should comb out her wet hair. She thought it might help to keep her hair out of her eyes. She couldn't use Claire's scarf forever; and besides, she didn't want to mess it up before she could give it back. She knew she couldn't afford a replacement.

Allison finger-combed her hair, pushing it back from her forehead. Maybe she'd stop by the mall. There had to be some kind of store where she could get a headband, or something. Maybe a brush. But she definitely needed to go to the art store. She was running low on her oil paints. Especially blue and green.

* * *

It was raining by the time she got to the mall. She only had about $20 left from the money she'd pilfered from her mom's purse on the way out the door. Her mother never noticed. She was always too drunk, depressed, or both to ever notice Allison. She couldn't believe she'd spent $30 on paint and brushes. Art stuff was getting to be too expensive. The pencils and erasers she'd stashed in her parka made her feel better, though.

Allison wasn't a total stranger to the mall; it's just that normally she only went in the bookstore. She decided to stop there first, and found a book of Escher prints that she really liked on the bargain table. Then, on a whim, she looked through the sports section and actually found a book on competitive wrestling. She knew absolutely nothing about the sport, and right now she wanted anything she could get her hands on that gave her some kind of connection to Andy. As she paid for her books, she couldn't help but think that Dr. Shreve was right about the obsessive personality thing. Of course, it didn't take an expensive Medical Doctorate to come up with that diagnosis.

She moved on from the bookstore, walking slowly around the mall, looking for a store that might have hair stuff. Mostly, she passed by clothing stores and shoe stores, a toy store, and the food court.

Finally she came to one called McCrory's. She entered nervously, looking around quickly. Allison wanted to find the section she wanted so she could get what she needed and leave. There were lots of makeup and bath supplies, and a hair doo-dad section as well. Allison hurried in that direction. She saw some animal print hairbrushes, and stared at them in horror. She never could understand the fascination with animal prints, even fake ones. Why would anyone want to wear or own something that looked like the skin of another creature? Then she saw one that looked like a curled up, sleeping cat, with the cat's tail as the handle. It was CUTE. Allison picked it up and ran her fingers over the sleeping cat's face, smiling. Then she looked around for something to keep her hair out of her face. She picked up a black head band, and a packet of barrettes, studying them like they were relics from an ancient civilization. Would she use these if she got them?

A bunch of giggling girls started down her aisle. Allison panicked, and hurried around the corner. She saw more women coming into the store. Why did females always move in herds? She slipped past a few more aisles, over to the make-up. It was closer to the front of the store, and she breathed a bit easier for that. She could pick out what she needed and go. The exit into the mall beckoned her, but she only had a few more things to get.

There was so much to choose from, she felt slightly intimidated. Then she remembered Claire's list. She opened her bag and started digging around, trying to find it.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?"

The voice startled her, but not as much as the hand clamped around her arm, yanking her hand out of her bag.

She looked up, her eyes wide in outrage. She wasn't doing anything, just trying find something! What did this guy think _he_ was doing?

Then she saw, in her own hand, the one the guy was holding up, the cat-shaped brush. In her other hand were the barrettes and head band. She really wasn't trying to steal anything, but she knew what it looked like. He must have thought she was trying to hide the brush in her bag. The guy, whose name tag said "Assistant Manager," and below that, "Clyde," glared down at her with piggy little eyes framed by horn-rim glasses. He looked to be in his early thirties, but he already had a shiny, sweaty bald spot circled with wispy, strawberry blonde hair. He had lots of big moles on his neck, which almost made her feel nauseous, along with the strong BO scent wafting over her. He wore a slightly wrinkled, white button-down shirt with short sleeves, and belted black pants. There was a clip-on tie attached to his collar.

And he had a tight, almost bruising grip on her wrist. Allison didn't really like other people touching her. And this guy's sweaty hand made her skin crawl. He started dragging her toward the back of the store. "Well, we'll just have to call your parents and the police, if you won't answer me." His voice was arrogant, and he almost sounded happy to have caught someone shoplifting. As if he'd been waiting for this moment ever since they handed him his "Assistant Manager" name tag.

Allison tried to say something, anything, but all that came out was a squeak.

"Wait! It's ok, I'll pay for it." The guy stopped and turned. So did Allison. Her heart beat sounded loud in her ears when she saw Andy standing in the entrance of the very girly shop. Not a painting, not a sketch. The real thing. Without even seeming to think about it, he walked into the store and pulled out his wallet. He opened it and held out a ten toward the guy.

Clyde seemed to hesitate. His squinty eyes narrowed. He mopped some sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. When Andy sighed and replaced the ten in his wallet and pulled out a twenty, Clyde snatched it and let go of Allison. "Get out," he snapped. He wagged one sausage-fat finger in Allison's face. "I don't ever want to see you in here again."

She finally managed to find her voice. For some strange reason, she was trying to think of what Claire would do in a situation like this. "Don't worry," she said, nervous-angry and shaking. "I don't enjoy being manhandled by pigs like you."

She'd said it louder than she intended, and all of a sudden everyone was looking at the three of them. Clyde noticed the shocked glances, and more sweat popped out on his forehead. He looked around, seeing the horrified expressions on the mostly female faces of his customers. The woman behind the cash register wore a small grin. He turned on the two teenagers, his face reddening, but they were gone. He ducked out into the mall, but they had already been swallowed by the crowds of shoppers. As he turned to go back into his store, several customers swept passed him, glaring at him as they exited the store.

* * *

Andy stopped running when they got to his mom's car in the parking lot. Then he collapsed against it, laughing. Allison was laughing too, but hers was more of a nervous reaction. How had she had the guts to stand up to that guy? To yell at him like that?

"Whoo, he deserved that!" Andy said, still laughing.

Allison leaned against the car next to him. "Definitely."

"I thought you were a pro at thievery," Andy said, his blue eyes sparkling. "But I've got a tip for you: hide it before you leave the store."

"I actually didn't mean to steal it. I have money. Here, you should take it," she said, digging in her purse. She pulled out a wad of bills. Mostly ones. Her mother was a waitress.

Andy held up his hands. "No, no! It was worth it just to see that guy's face when you called him a pig."

"I _will _find a way to give the money back to you. I'm a thief. If I can sneak stuff out, I can sneak it back in."

Andy chuckled. "All right, tell you what. If you buy me some lunch, we're even." He was delighted when she smiled at him again.

"Deal."

* * *

"So what were _you_ doing at the mall?"

"I could ask you the same question, Sporto. Last I checked, not many stores sell men's tights." Allison still had a bit of a high from telling off that jerk at the mall, and it made her more confident than usual. She sprinkled a package of sugar into her Coke, then pulled a small bag of peanuts out of her purse and emptied it into her drink as well.

Andy watched in horrified fascination, one mustard-y fry halfway to his mouth. They were at a local burger-slash-pizza joint. Andy had ordered two double cheeseburgers and two large fries. Allison had ordered pineapple and gummy worm pizza. When the waitress said they didn't have any gummy worms, Allison assured her she could provide her own. The waitress had walked away with a puzzled expression on her face, as if she wasn't quite sure of what she'd just heard.

After they had gotten into Andy's mom's car at the mall (sans Andy's mom), Allison was suddenly stricken with a bout of self-consciousness. Her clothes were dirty and wrinkled, and they didn't match. And her hair, despite her earlier efforts, was hanging rattily in her face. She hated that Claire's stupid makeover suddenly made her feel so horrible about herself. She had enough shit to worry about, without adding her appearance to the list. But Andy didn't say anything about it. He just kept looking over and smiling at her.

Like he was doing now, across the table. He had a great smile. It made him look like a little boy, and it really got to her.

After Allison had fixed her Coke the way she liked it, she pulled out a bag of gummy worms and started placing them strategically on her pineapple pizza. She took a big bite, loving the taste of warm pineapple and cheese. And the gummy worms gave it that extra bit of sweetness and texture.

"How can you..." Andy started.

"What?"

"How can you eat that?"

She grinned. "You want some?"

He looked like he'd rather have a lobotomy. "No."

Allison laughed at him, then continued eating. Andy, amazingly, finished his meal before she had even gotten halfway through her small pizza. He leaned back and burped.

"I'm sorry I didn't have enough to cover lunch," she said when she was done with her food.

He smiled at her. "That's ok. You can pay me back by having lunch with me tomorrow."

Allison's eyes widened. "At school?"

"No, in Italy. Of course at school." He was looking at her with those bright, blue-with-a-touch-of-green eyes. "What's the matter?" he said gently. "Afraid to be seen with me?"

She laughed once, nervously. "What will your friends think?"

"They'll think I'm insane for not having asked you out sooner."

Allison was speechless; not an unusual condition for her, but an odd experience nonetheless. She didn't know what to say to a comment like that. No guy had ever said that to her before.

"Just say yes," Andy said, as if he were listening to her inner turmoil. "Please?"

The "Please" did it. She smiled uncertainly, but she answered, "Yes."

"Good."

After that, they lapsed into a mostly comfortable silence as Allison ate a little more pizza. She watched him, though, and she could see his demeanor changing. He went slowly from jovial and goofy to looking almost depressed. She started asking him questions about school, trying to figure out what it was that was making him so unhappy. They talked about teachers they had in common, and some of Claire's ditzy friends. Andy told Allison that not all of Claire's friends were ditzy. Some were really nice. He said that her nice friends probably were not the ones Claire was worried about.

"Well, if the ones she's worried about aren't nice, why is she so worried about them?"

Andy shook his head. "I don't know. Probably because they're the ones more apt to do horrible things to her if she doesn't 'follow the crowd.'"

Allison was confused. "If they might do horrible things to her...why is she friends with them?"

Weariness seemed to sweep over him. "I don't know. But I remember Claire in middle school. She was pretty awkward and shy, until this group of girls 'adopted' her as their project. They told her what to wear, and how to look, and then all of a sudden she was popular. I guess she feels pretty loyal to them for that."

Allison tried to imagine Claire as awkward and shy, and couldn't quite manage it. "How do you know so much about her?"

"One of my buddies dated one of her friends, briefly, and the girl got really drunk at a party one night, and was regaling me with stories of how she's the one who made Claire Standish popular."

_That _struck an uncomfortable chord with Allison. Was she just Claire's project? A month from now, would Claire would be at a party, really drunk, bragging to everyone that _she_ was the one who had made Allison Reynolds popular? _Well, guess what, Claire? I don't want to be popular._ She started to get angry, but then she noticed Andy's growing unhappiness, and tried to lighten the mood. "So, in other words, she was Dr. Frankenstein?"

Andy looked surprised for a second, then he burst into laughter. When he could come up for air, he choked out, "It's alive! It's alive!" and made himself laugh all over again. Allison watched in fascination. She much preferred happy Andy to mopey Andy. Mopey Andy made her nervous. She worried that she might, in some way, be the cause of his mopishness.

He wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. "That was good. Hey, are you done eating?" he said, noticing she'd pushed away her half-eaten pizza. She nodded, and Andy gestured to their waitress. The waitress brought her back a box, and they left the restaurant.

When they got into the car, Andy sighed. He looked very tired again. He started the car, and exited the parking lot. When he'd gotten back onto the road, he said he needed to go home so he could get another work-out in. He sounded very, very tired. What was the matter with him?

"Why _were_ you at the mall today?" she asked.

He chuckled quietly, but there was no humor in it. He didn't answer right away, just drummed his fingers on the steering wheel along with whatever mindless glam rock was playing on the radio. "I got my wish," he said finally.

"What wish is that?"

He clenched his jaw, and his lips got very thin. "My dad's ignoring me. He's pretending I don't exist."

"Why would he do that?"

"I told him I wanted to quit the wrestling team."

She was quiet for a few moments. "Do you?"

He sighed. "I don't know. I don't know what I want to do. I just thought that maybe if I told him something like that, he would actually start listening to me. Instead he shut me out completely. He wouldn't even say 'Good Morning' to me today, so I left."

Allison nodded. She understood. She couldn't remember the last time her mother had said 'Good Morning' to her. Probably because her mother was never awake in the morning. She didn't normally drag herself out of bed until three or four in the afternoon. And, well, since she only saw her dad twice a year, he didn't count as a parent.

"Oh, turn here," she said as they approached her street. She'd been so lost in thought, she almost missed it. "That one," she pointed to her house. Andy stopped in front of it. She was gathering her packages, when she felt his hand on her arm. When she turned to look at him, he was smiling again. But there something serious in his expression.

"I'm glad we ran into each other today. That we could see each other, y'know, before Monday."

"Why is Monday so important?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I just have a feeling that there might be some bullshit when people see all of us together. And I wanted to let you know, before all the possible craziness, that I like you. A lot. And I want to be friends, if not--if not more."

She was speechless again. He seemed to have that effect on her. He just knocked the words right out of her. She wanted to ask if he really thought they were all going to be together on Monday, but all she could manage was an "Okay." He tightened his grip on her arm, and pulled her gently toward him. _Oh, my God, he's gonna kiss me again._ And he did, gently at first. She closed her eyes, nervous and excited at the same time. When he slid one hand behind her neck, she got tingles. When he deepened the kiss, she repeated the gesture, latching her arms around his neck, running her fingers through his hair.

Finally the kiss ended, and they pulled away. Allison ducked her head, suddenly shy. She could feel her cheeks burning. "See you tomorrow?" he said.

Allison glanced up at him and nodded, gathered up her bags and got out of the car. She waved as he pulled away, watching until she couldn't see the car anymore. Then she practically ran into the house, through the dark interior into her bedroom, and slammed her door. She didn't have words for what she was feeling, but she could bet that Hildegaard did. She put on a record of the 12th century nun's chants, then started ripping prints and sketches off of her wall. She needed a large, blank canvas.


	9. New Skeletons, Old Closet

**Better Hallway Vision**

**by UnicornPammy**

**A/N:** Yay! My first truly new chapter in months! I don't know why it took me so long to decide that it was ready.

I guess I didn't want to have to face the fact that I now have to do another Andy chapter. Wah, I just can't get into his head.

I love the idea of Claire having a closet unpopular best friend. Someone who would always be there for her even though she wasn't the best best friend in the world.

**Disclaimer:** John Hughes is a genious. Pam is just a stupid pretender. Jane is mine, though, for what it's worth.

**Chapter 9: New Skeletons, Old Closet**

Claire studied her face in the bathroom mirror. Her left cheek was purple and green, and slightly puffy. She pressed it lightly with her fingertips, wincing in pain and disgust. How ugly, she thought.

Her dad was taking her shopping today, but for the first time in her life, she didn't want to go. She never thought there could be an excuse to miss a shopping trip with her dad and his Visa card. She also felt nervous about going to school on Monday. She finally had a valid reason to be absent, and she didn't even want to take it. Well, except for that perm disaster freshman year. That was totally legitimate.

Claire leaned closer to the mirror. She simply could not go out, not like this. Time to see what the magic of Mary Kay could do.

She concealed, she foundationed, she powdered and blushed. She scrutinized. Was it overkill? She normally didn't use a lot of make-up on her cheeks, just a little bit of color because she was so pale. Her stomach twisted in anxiety, and her eyes teared up. She knew that anyone who was acquainted with her at all would be able to tell that she was wearing way more make-up than she normally did. What was she going to tell people, that she fell down the stairs? Nobody would believe it.

Claire took a deep breath, trying to keep herself from crying. Blotchy skin and blood-shot eyes certainly wouldn't help right now. Her heart turned heavy when she realized that she probably wouldn't get to see John tomorrow. Yet at the same time, she was a little relieved. She had more time to prepare for him, to sort out her feelings. To get them under control. She liked John, she wanted him, but she was damned if she'd let him break her heart.

"Claire!"

Oh, shit. It was time. The butterflies of anxiety in her stomach felt like they were trying to beat their way out.

"Claire, are you ready?" he called from the bottom of the stairs.

She tried to wipe the stupid tears away, but the action only served to smear mascara over her cheeks and nose. She swore, and tried to dab away the black streaks with a Q-tip. Clearing her throat and trying not to sound like she was crying, she yelled back, "No, I don't feel well, Dad. I don't-" her voice cracked, "I don't really want to go out today." _Then why am I still trying to fix my make up?_ she thought.

"What's the matter, sweetheart?" she heard him say as he started up the steps. Dammit. If he came up, he'd see. She didn't want him to see, to know what happened. She panicked. He couldn't see her like this. She was ashamed. For some reason she was so ashamed.

Claire hurried out of her bathroom, and over to the bedroom door, shutting and locking it. She turned around and leaned back against it. She looked around her room: at the designer clothes scattered about; the pictures of her and her friends; her jewelry box filled with expensive earrings, necklaces, rings, bracelets... _You got everything, and I got shit! _A few seconds later the knob rattled.

"Claire?" he sounded confused and worried and slightly hurt. "Honey, why is your door locked?"

"Dad, I just...I don't feel well. Please, can I stay home today?" She wheedled for all she was worth.

There was a sigh from the other side of the door. "Honey, if this...if this is about your mother, and Bill Bender's son...well, why don't we talk about it?"

Wow, wonder of wonders, her parents actually communicated at fewer than 100 decibels, because she hadn't heard that conversation. Claire pressed her palms flat against the green surface, and looked up at the ceiling, a habit she had when she was upset. She bit her bottom lip as her eyes teared up again, hating herself for crying so much. She used to use tears to get what she wanted, and she was very good at it; but now, she couldn't stop them.

It wasn't just her own appearance, though, that made her cry. It was what her mom had said. That her dad defended John's dad, just because they went to high school together. She shook her head. There had to be more to it than that.

_This feels like betrayal._ For all his faults and bad parenting, she'd always thought her father was a good man. But now she didn't know. She wasn't sure. A good man wouldn't defend a monster like that. Not willingly. She thought about John's burn scar. She guessed it wasn't the only mark on him. And that thought made her furious.

"Talk about what?" Claire yelled through her door. "The fact that you help a man beat his son just because he was one of your high school buddies?"

"Claire!" Her father's tone was filled with shock. "Young lady, you will not speak to me that way." His stern tone melted almost right away. "Now open this door, and let's talk about it."

"Go away."

"Honey, you don't understand the situation. It's not that simple." He pleaded for her understanding, wanting for her to buckle to him the way he always gave in to her. But in their not quite parasitic, not quite symbiotic relationship, she had always been the distant one. He was the pushover, not Claire.

"_Go away."_

"Sweetheart..."

She didn't say anything. He tried again, but after nothing but silence from her side of the door, he finally left.

-----------

Heart's "Little Queen" album had gotten Claire through many tough times, and as the first few notes drifted out of the head phones, she already felt better. Ann Wilson's strident vocals and the empowering lyrics always helped her feel a little more in control, of herself and her life. But when the last track had faded, and she pulled off the head phones, Claire didn't feel much better. She couldn't believe she'd said that to her dad. She felt bad about it, but didn't quite regret it. How could he do something like that? It made her ill just to think about it, thinking about John being abused, over and over, because her dad thought he had to help out an old friend. For what, what had her mom said, pity?

_And that's all you should have for his son._

Claire could never pity John Bender. He was quite capable of taking care of himself. He didn't _want _anybody's pity, anyway. Maybe sometimes he wanted people to understand, but she saw what happened to him when he actually opened up to others. He'd probably been called a liar over and over again. She couldn't blame him for the way he acted...most of the time. There were times when he was just genuinely a prick, and he knew it, and he enjoyed it. But there were other times when he was genuinely a good person. Those times were what caught her, like the way he sacrificed himself so they could get back to the library without getting caught. He wanted people to think he was dangerous, and he only looked out for himself. Claire wanted to think that she wasn't so easily fooled. She wasn't afraid of John Bender.

But she felt that he might be a little bit afraid of himself.

Claire flopped down onto her bed and buried her face in the pillow. She groaned in frustration, and punched the bedcovers. She wanted him to be there, so she could talk to him. She hated only being able to think about him, and all the things she wanted to tell him.

Claire sighed. She was starting to get bored. She wished her best friend Jane would come over, like she had when Claire's first and last venture with a perm had gone wrong back in ninth grade. Claire chuckled to herself as she remembered. She'd tried to do it herself, because her mom wouldn't let her get one at a salon. Unfortunately, she'd used too much solution, and instead of having long, beautiful ringlets, her hair turned out crispy and several different lengths because some of it had simply burned off. She'd called Jane in tears the next day, and her friend had skipped school to come over and fix it. She trimmed off the crispiness and evened out the layers. They discovered that when Claire's hair was cut short, it was naturally curly and wavy. She'd had short hair ever since.

She really missed Jane. After middle school, Jane's parents had decided that they needed to live closer to Chicago. Now, she only saw her friend once or twice a month. Which was probably just as well. If Jane knew how much of a snob she was, she probably wouldn't like her at all. Jane hadn't understood why Claire had needed to change back in middle school. Why Claire _needed_ to be popular.

But she really did wish that Jane was still in Shermer. Even though these days she was surrounded by her swarm of friends, she still felt...alone.

------------

Jane Graham nervously smoothed out her skirt, and knocked on the door of 312 Wyndhurst Terrace. She heard steps approaching the front door almost immediately, and began a chant under her breath. _Please not Alicia, please not Alicia._ She was embarrased to admit it, but she was scared spitless of Claire's mom. The woman gave her the jibblies for many reasons, not the least of which being the fact that Jane's parents didn't make enough money to suit the woman. She didn't approve of her daughter's friendship with some nobody whose parents held low-paying government jobs.

Jane heard something rattle on the other side of the door, as if someone were undoing several locks. Then the doorknob turned, and the Standishs' live-in housekeeper, Mariela, stuck her head out. She smiled when she saw Jane, and motioned her inside.

"Are you sure you won't get in trouble?" Mariela asked as she quickly closed the door behind Jane.

"Hola Mariela. Bien, y tu?" Jane said sarcastically.

"Muy bien. Thank you for coming. Are you _sure_ you won't get in trouble?" The hispanic housekeeper was actually wringing her hands, obviously distressed.

"I'm sure. My parents trust me. But why are you so upset? What happened?" Jane took Mariela's hands into her own, holding onto her in an effort to comfort her.

"She hit her."

"Who hit whom?"

"Miss Claire. She slapped her mother."

Jane's eyes widened. "Whoa. That _is_ a big deal. Do you think the White Witch will sue?"

"Please Miss Jane, don't make jokes." Mariela looked ready to cry.

"Hey," she said soothingly. "Everything's going to be all right." Her tone became more serious. "How's Claire? Not in intensive care, I hope?"

Mariela gave a weak chuckle. "No. She's upstairs in her room. She yelled at her father this morning, but I couldn't quite understand why. I don't know much about...what this is all about." She waved her hand, dismissing the reasons. Reasons weren't important, but actions were. She didn't like what her long-time employers were doing to their daughter. "Why they are all fighting. But she needs someone right now, Miss Jane. And I am just a housekeeper."

Jane pulled her into a hug. "You are a wonderful person, Miss Mariela, and I am glad you called me. Nobody looks out for Claire better than you."

"Thank you," Mariela said, pulling away from Jane and wiping a bit of moisture from her eyes. "You should go upstairs now. She needs her friend."

Jane smiled and nodded, then moved out of the foyer, and into the grand entrance, which had a wide staircase leading up to a landing that was big enough to be a bedroom, in Jane's opinion, but only held a large potted palm and some orchids on a tall marble-topped stand. She climbed the next set of stairs to the upper floor, and went to Claire's bedroom door, which was closed. Jane knocked, but didn't get an answer. "Claire?" Nothing. She knocked again, and said Claire's name louder. When she didn't get an answer that time, she started pounding. Finally, she just tried the door knob, but it was locked. Sighing, she dug around in her purse until she came up with a bobby pin, and proceeded to pick the lock. She'd seen Claire do it plenty of times when she wanted to get into a room that was off-limits in the house. Like the unused study that was a great hiding place for birthday and Christmas presents. She heard a click, and tried the knob. It turned, and the door opened.

Claire had her back to the door, and she was dancing. Jane saw the bulky headphones covering her ears, and the cord leading to the stereo. She raised an eyebrow. No wonder Claire couldn't hear her. Yep, she sure did seem to be down, and in need of a friend. Jane stood in the doorway with her arms crossed, a half-grin curving her lips. Oh, if only she had a camera. She watched Claire dance, covering her mouth with one hand to hold back her laughter. Then Claire did a spin, stopping halfway around when she saw Jane in the doorway.

"Jane!" Claire said in an excited shriek. She pulled off the head phones and hurried forward to grab her laughing friend in a hug. "Stop laughing at me! What are you doing here?"

Jane pulled back, and wiped the tears of mirth off her cheeks. "A little bird told me you needed some cheering up, but it looks like it happened the other way around." She blinked a couple times, and her smile faded. "Oh, Claire," she said, when she finally got a look at her friend's face. It looked freshly scrubbed, and badly bruised. Her playfulness was replaced almost instantly by anger. "What did that bitch do to you?"

Claire covered the left side of her face with her hand and backed up a few steps, then turned away.

"Nothing. I fell down the stairs."

"Bullshit."

Claire spun back around. "Jane, you can't tell anybody."

"Like hell I can't tell anybody! I'll--"

"Least of all, your mother."

Jane tried to adopt an authoritative tone. "You can't just let her do that to you. There are laws against--"

"Swear that you won't tell. Pinky swear." She held out her right fist, littlest finger in the air.

"Claire, I can't--"

"Jane, this is the first and last time this happens. Trust me."

Jane looked skeptical. "How do you know?"

Claire took a deep breath, then let it out, squaring her shoulders as she did so. "Because I'm going to find my brother."

Jane rolled her eyes. "Yeah, you said that last year. You don't even know his name. How are you going to find him?"

"Pinky swear." She wiggled her finger.

Jane growled, tossing her head back and looking at the ceiling in a gesture of resignation. "God_dammit_, you are such a hardheaded little bitch." Then she hooked Claire's pinky finger in her own. "Fine. Pinky swear. But if this happens again, I'm telling my mom. And then it'll be up to DCF." Jane's mom was a social worker with the Chicago Department of Children and Families.

"Thank you," Claire said, pulling Jane to her in a hug. "You are the best friend ever."

"Yeah, sure. So what happened anyway?"

Claire took a deep breath. "Well, to be fair, I kind of deserved it."

Jane rolled her eyes. "Don't worry, I have no doubt of that. But that doesn't give anybody the right to hit you."

"That's your mom talking."

"That's _me_ talking. Just because I heard it from her, that doesn't make it wrong." She sat down on Claire's bed and flopped backward, sighing, staring up at the ceiling. She blinked, surprised at what she saw...or rather, didn't see. "Claire?"

"Hmm?"

"Where's your Jon Bon Jovi poster!"

"Oh, that thing?"

"'Oh, _that_ thing?'" Jane mimicked, raising herself up on her elbows, an incredulous expression on her face. "'Oh, that _thing?' _How can you possibly refer to the _hottest_ singer in the world as a _thing?"_

"It was a poster, not a person."

"Well, I hope that _thing _is still around, because I want it!"

"It's in the closet, go for it."

Jane got up and rushed over to Claire's closet. She opened the door, amazed as she was every time at the size of it and the sheer volume it contained. But everything was neat, in its place. The poster was rolled up and tied with a pink ribbon, leaning against the shoe rack.

A pink ribbon? Jane thought. Melodramatic much? Certainly not discarded with disdain.

When Jane emerged, she said, "Claire, why did you take him down?"

"I'm getting too old for childish stuff like that. I need to concentrate on real life stuff."

"Real life being...?"

"You know, my future. College, what I want to do with the rest of my life...that kind of thing."

"Uh, huh. You met a guy, didn't you?"

Claire rolled her eyes.

"You totally met a guy! You should see your face." At Claire's hurt look, Jane amended her words. "I mean the expression on it. Sorry."

"I meet lots of guys."

"Yeah, but you've never taken a poster down for one before. Claire, we've been best friends for how long? Just because we go to different schools doesn't mean you can hide anything from me."

"Fine, I might have...met a guy."

"Keep going... Does this guy have a name?"

"John."

"Ok, not bad for a toilet."

"Jane..."

"Keep going. What does he look like? Do I know him?"

"Wellll... You might have had a crush on him in middle school."

Jane blinked. "That John? John Bender? Holy crap!" A grin crept onto her face. "You're going for the bad boy type these days? Claire Standish, I am proud of you! No more limp-dick preps for you, my friend."

Claire collapsed into a heap of giggles. "You're right," Claire gasped. "Anthony never could get it up." That sent Jane off, Claire following behind.

"I still don't know why you wanted that jerk-off to be your first," Jane said when they had wound down a bit.

"Me neither." Claire shook her head. "Although, you didn't do any better. I mean, Ryan Dornacher?"

Jane blushed. "How was I supposed to know he preferred my brother to me?"

"Are they still together?"

"Unfortunately, no. Dad's sending Thomas to military school. When Ryan found out, he tried to talk Thomas into running away, but Thomas wouldn't. So Ryan dumped him."

"That sucks."

"Yeah. I think Dad threatened to disinherit him if he didn't 'straighten out,' so to speak." Jane shook her head. "It just sucks all around."

"Yeah."

They lapsed into silence, a silence that wasn't entirely comfortable. They only really saw each other a dozen times a year these days, and the weeks and months they spent apart had put a lot of distance between them. They were still best friends, definitely, but they had drifted apart. The realization filled Claire with a poignant sadness. She groped for more words to fill the silence.

"So..."

"Hmm?"

"Are you...I mean, have you...?"

"Spit it out."

"Are you still a virgin?"

"Um, yeah. I think if I wasn't, I would have told you. Y'know?"

"Yeah, I know. I just...I don't want to be one anymore."

"Look, I know how you feel, but you should wait for the right person, Claire. I mean, look what happened when we tried to plan it out, like it was a science experiment or something. You wound up with Limp Dick, and I wound up with...my brother's future boyfriend. It should be with someone you love, someone you trust. Not just someone you think is hot."

Claire was quiet again, but this time she was thinking of John. "You have to admit, though, John Bender is _really_ hot." But did she love him? Trust him? Could she honestly answer "yes" to both of those questions?

No. She couldn't. But she had a feeling that with time, it was possible that she could fall insanely in love with him.


	10. Two Steps Back

**Better Hallway Vision**

**by: UnicornPammy**

**A/N: **Here it is, folks, the long-awaited chapter 10. Ain't it purty? Anyway, sorry for the abominable delay, work has been hell lately, and I've been on such an odd sleep schedule that I can't seem to get anything done when I'm not at work. But thanks to Kendall's fine beta work and Vodka's exasperated badgering, I've managed to crank out a word or two. Hope y'all enjoy. As always, reviews are warmly received. I truly appreciate them. I'm hoping that it won't take as long to get chapter 11 out.

**Disclaimer:** I'll give them back, I promise. They may be a little roughed up, but otherwise they'll be as good as new. Except maybe scarred for the rest of their fictional lives.

**Chapter 10: Two Steps Back**

Andy parked his mom's station wagon in the half-empty parking lot of the Shops at Shermer Forest. It was Sunday, so the mall had closed earlier than it did the rest of the week. He didn't know why he'd come back; all he knew was that he didn't want to go home just yet. The current of excitement and joy running through him was too nascent, too wonderful to be destroyed by his father's disapproval.

He sat outside the food court for a while, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, and then tracing the silver VW emblem in the center of it. He hadn't really wanted to go to the mall at all today. Of course, now he was glad he had. His friend Ron had called him that afternoon, begging Andy to come help him out by going on a double date with some rival-school cheerleader and her no-doubt ugly friend. The ugly friend reserved, of course, for Andy.

He'd left the house, gotten in the car, started it up, all by rote. Not even considering turning Ron down, even though he didn't want to go. He was actually at the mall when he realized that once again, he wasn't thinking for himself. When was he going to start doing so?

Andy suddenly heard a familiar laugh, and glanced out the window into the fading midafternoon. Twilight would arrive in a very short while, but there was still enough sun to set Claire's unmistakeable red hair ablaze. She was walking across the parking lot, laden down with shopping bags. Her companion was someone he remembered from middle school, someone who had not joined the rest of them in high school. She must have moved away. She had grown up, he noticed. Her mousy brown hair had become thick and slightly wavy, falling somewhere in between her shoulder blades and her waist. The plaid school-girl skirt she wore accentuated her athletic legs. She had the calves of a softball player, muscular instead of sleek, but still very attractive.

He caught himself thinking of her in a purely sexual way. Familiar feelings of guilt washed over him. He'd just left a girl that he already had very strong feelings for, and here he was wanting the next mildly attractive girl he saw. Andy shook his head, not allowing himself to watch as the duo passed by his car. He tried to pull Allison's face before his mind's eye, and tried not to think about the fact that he had never noticed her before yesterday; or that when he had, the first thing he'd done was share a laugh with Claire at her expense.

There was a hesitant tap on his window. Andy jerked his head around, startled. And saw something that he had never seen before: A nervous, self-conscious Claire. Her friend--Andy found he couldn't remember her name--stood a bit to Claire's left, looking puzzled and a little annoyed.

After an awkward moment of indecision, Andy finally decided he should roll down his window. He'd said he wouldn't treat any of the others in detention as anything less than a friend. And he would not. So why did he dread talking to Claire, of all people?

"Hi," she said as his window rolled down, her breath escaping on a white cloud of vapor. Everything about her was unsure, from her posture as she bent down to look him in the eye, to her expression, to the self-conscious tremble in her voice. She clutched her packages to her chest like a lifeline, her only defense against rejection.

"Hi." Andy noticed an odd shadow on her left cheek, one that didn't shift as Claire looked back over her shoulder to cast a meaningful glance at her friend. What kind of meaning the look carried, he couldn't tell. When she turned back to him, her friend was politely moving a short distance away, and Andy found he couldn't take his eyes off the mark on her face. Anger started to burn in his chest.

"I, um," she started, then stopped. Began again. "Are you waiting for someone?" Her insecurity was uncharacteristic, and it made Andy feel uneasy. It was something different, something he wasn't used to. He was accustomed to girls like her being arrogant and full of themselves, so sure of their own self-worth. And he knew full well that Claire could definitely be that kind of girl. But this...this fragile vulnerability made him want to pull away.

And Andy, thickheaded Andy, insular and self-absorbed Andy, actually knew the reason why. She was putting so much faith in him, so much trust that he would keep his promise. And he was so damn afraid of letting her down. Of letting all of them down. Especially Allison.

So he turned to the only defense he could think of on short notice: Shift the attention to somebody else.

"Did John Bender do that to you?" he said, ignoring her question, infusing his voice with righteous anger.

At first Claire looked shocked, her eyes widening, her mouth slightly parted. Then her teeth snapped together as her jaw set in fury, and she straightened. He heard the grind of her heel against pavement as she spun and walked briskly away. "Bastard!" she tossed over her shoulder, turning her head slightly but not really looking back. He caught the look of consternation on her friend's face as she tried to keep up with Claire.

Andy rolled up the window slowly, knowing he'd blown it. "Damn it," he whispered, clenching his fingers around the leather-wrapped steering wheel. Then he smacked the dash with the heel of his right hand. _"Shit!" _

His memory of Allison's face looked at him with disgust, then also turned away.

OoOoOoOoOo

Jason Clark was asleep in the den, the flickering lights from the television playing over his flaccid face as his snores drowned out the basketball game in progress. Andy stood in the doorway, just watching his dad. Wanting to wake him up and tell him about his day. But what would his dad have to say about Andy spending the day with a girl? He found that he didn't want to hear his dad belittle what he was feeling by telling him that girls could wait. College couldn't. That's what his dad had told his brothers. That's all he could imagine his old man saying to him.

Andy shook his head and moved away from the den into the kitchen to say hello to his mother. Even though he had just eaten with Allison, he was already hungry again, and he could smell something good cooking in the kitchen. Sarah Clark was busy whipping potatoes with a hand blender.

"Hey, Ma," he said, kissing her cheek and going to the fridge to dig out a Coke.

"Hello, honey. Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes. Meatloaf." She winked at him.

Meatloaf, his father's favorite dinner. His mom was trying to put his dad into a good mood. He gave her a half-smile of thanks, knowing the expression was weak and transparent. He left the kitchen to go upstairs, defeat and weariness weighing across his shoulders like a 300 lb. barbell.

OoOoOoOoOo

As her youngest walked away, probably seeking his bedroom, Sarah felt so much anger toward her husband she didn't know what to do with it. Of course, mingled in with that anger was her own guilt. Andy looked so heart-broken, and it was partially her fault. Jason had told her what Andy had said about quitting the wrestling team.

"Why does he want to quit!" Jason had yelled incredulously the night before, pacing the bedroom while Sarah was sitting up in bed reading a book. "This is his chance. This is his ride!" Then he turned to her, and she saw he was genuinely confused. He didn't understand what the constant pressure was doing to their son.

Sarah put down her book and sighed. "He's probably tired, Jason. You've been riding him so hard lately."

"He's gotta win, Sarah. Big colleges don't take losers."

"He's going to burn out, honey. I saw him limping around yesterday because his knee hurt. Lay off him a little. Just...leave him alone for a while."

And that's exactly what her meat-head husband was doing. He was so literal sometimes. Except he didn't realize what it was doing to Andy. She felt for her son. He'd wanted his father's attention so much when he was younger. But Jason had had such a hard time trying to give his attention to five boys. Then, when it was just Andy, he got ALL of it. He went from being starved to being smothered. Neither extreme was healthy.

Sarah knew what Andy had done to that poor Lester kid. Instead of being angry, though, she'd just felt sad. Sad that Andy had felt the need to do something like that to please his father. She'd seen the guilt written on her son's face, how it haunted him. All she could do was shake her head. The rift between her husband and her son caused her so much pain, but they were the only ones who could fix it.

OoOoOoOoOo

Andy sat on his weight bench, doing biceps curls with a 25 lb dumbell. He finished a set and stopped, lowering the weight back to its rack. _Why am I doing this?_ he thought. _If I'm quitting the wrestling team, why am I still pushing myself so hard? _Was it habit? Or had he only been trying to get a reaction when he'd told his dad that he wanted to quit the wrestling team? Both, maybe. He was supposed to feel relieved now, right? Now that he'd taken a stand against his father. He should feel good about himself.

He felt like the biggest, smelliest pile of shit in the state of Illinois. And it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why. Claire's shocked expression haunted him. Oh, _God_, if he could only take back those words, he'd do it so goddamn fast... Why? What had possessed him? What stupid, testosterone-laden non-thought had driven him to muster his own sense of self-worth by putting someone else down?

_Andy, that's all you _ever_ do. Or had you forgotten Larry's now-immortal, hairy ass?_

His mother called from downstairs, telling him dinner was ready. He stood, shaking out his arms then stretching them. More worries poured over his head, pooling in his stomach and hardening into a ball there. Would his dad talk to him? Would he even _look_ at him?

He went down and sat in his usual seat, thinking how lonely it was around the big table. A table that used to hold four other boys, all athletic and strong. He'd have thought his dad would be satisfied by now. Four star athlete sons attending big name colleges that he didn't have to pay for, because they all got scholarships and grants. Basketball, baseball, football, lacrosse.

Andy heard the television in the den turn up louder, knew that his dad was preparing to come into the dining room He wanted to be able to eat and still hear the game. Andy's youngest brother--who was still four years older than Andy--was a senior at Illinois, and he was playing in the televised game tonight.

Each of his brothers was a bright star in the Big Ten heavens. The eldest had been into lacrosse, and was now in law school finishing up his degree. The second eldest, the baseball star, was still in graduate school for communications. He wanted to be a sports writer. _They've got it all figured out_, he thought. _They know what they want. _The third eldest was on track to go to the NFL. He was possibly the best kicker Michigan State had ever seen. And his youngest brother attended the same school the eldest had, and on a full basketball scholarship. _They're gonna have great, successful lives. They never had a problem letting Dad tell them what to do. He told them what he wanted out of them, and they did it. They gave him what he wanted. Why can't I do the same?_

Jason Clark came into the dining room and sat at the table, grunting as he lowered himself into his chair.

_Can I?_ Andy thought. _Can I do it long enough to get out of here?_ He choked down the sudden rush of prideful stubbornness that filled his chest, fighting against the impulse to sell out. _Can I say it? '"Dad, I was just kidding. I'm not quitting the wrestling team."'_

Andy jumped as Sarah brought the meat loaf in and set it down in the center of the table.

"Oh, Andy, can you set the table?"

He looked up at his mother. "Uh, sure." He got up and grabbed plates and silverware from the big china cabinet in the corner.

His dad didn't look at him as Andy set a plate in front of him.

Andy sat just as his mother came back in with the mashed potatoes. He loaded food onto his plate, his hands shaking.

_Can I say it?_

He opened his mouth, about to form the words. He shoved a forkful of meatloaf in it instead. _I can't do it. I can't do it. _Allison's face stared at him from his mind's eye. _"He can't think for himself."_

_Yes I can. I can. I won't do it. I won't sell out._

Claire's face replaced Allison's in his mind. And her eyes told him that he already had.


	11. Red Hot

**Better Hallway Vision **

**by: UnicornPammy**

**A/N:** I had so much trouble with this chapter. Blah... I hope you guys enjoy it, because I worked hard. : þ Anyway, tell me what you think. Thanks so much to Kendall for her wonderful beta-ing. She's been a big help lately. I'm just sad I didn't have her to look over my stuff from the beginning. Thanks also to everyone who has reviewed so far, and to everyone who reviewed me the first time around. Hugs and kisses all around.

**Chapter 11: Red Hot**

Sunday after lunch, it started raining. Dante wanted to get some work done when he wasn't being rushed by customers, so after they returned to the garage he opened the rear bay doors to let in some air and started working. After a lot badgering and name-calling and whining, John finally talked Dante into letting him do something.

"Go," Dante finally said, handing John some paperwork. "Work on that car." Then he pointed to a red and black late-model Mustang up on a lift in the bay farthest from Dante's office. John checked the paperwork. It was an '84 GT, needing an inspection, oil change, and tune-up. He just shook his head as he looked up at it. What he wouldn't give to have a car like that, although his taste lay more in the muscle cars from the late sixties to early seventies.

John went into Dante's store room and grabbed the right kind of oil and oil filter for the car. Dante specialized in sports cars, and actually had a following among local street racers, so he almost always had the right kind of replacement and maintenance parts for more exotic cars. He placed a pan under the car and let the old oil drain out, then snooped around a little. It seemed that someone had gone for the full package on this car. It was a five speed V8, red with blacked out trim and a wide matte black stripe on the hood from the grille to the windshield. The T-top was okay, but he probably would have preferred a sunroof. It just made more sense from a practical standpoint. Still, all in all it was a bad ass car. He wondered if the owner realized what he had.

He stopped when he saw the license plate: RED HOT. He glanced at the work order, trying to read the customer's name, but Dante's handwriting was indecipherable, although he thought he saw an "St," and maybe it ended in "-ish."

"Who's car is this?" he yelled over top of KISS's _Destroyer _album.

Dante had a car up on the lift in the next bay over, assessing some damage to the undercarriage, occasionally writing notes on the clipboard in his hand. He looked over at John with a worried expression. "Why, what'd you do to it?"

"Nothing, Roger. Unbunch your panties. I was just curious." He finished letting the oil drain and then twisted on a new filter. Then he lowered the car to the ground and tipped a five gallon jug of dark amber oil into the funnel he'd already placed in the top of the motor. When it was gone he checked the dipstick. Full. He checked all the other fluids and moved on to the tune-up. He tested the battery and the spark plugs. "Did she have any complaints about how it's been running?"

Dante glanced up briefly from his notes then looked back down. "Yeah, she said it was–" He jerked his head up. "How do you know it belongs to a woman?"

John raised an eyebrow. "There's a Pat Benetar tape in the passenger seat."

Dante stared at him for a few seconds, and John thought he saw a relieved expression briefly pass across the older man's face. "_I_ like Pat Benetar."

"Yeah, you would. So, who does it belong to?" John pestered.

Dante started writing again and wouldn't look at him. "No one you know." He placed a slight emphasis on the _you._

For some reason Andy's words came back to him then._ You may as well not even exist. _They pissed him off all over again. But Dante was right. He never would have met her if he hadn't pulled the fire alarm and she hadn't gone shopping, both in the same week. He shouldn't know her.

John shook his head, pushing away the anger. He knew her now. The circumstances of their meeting could not make it any less legitimate. "Anyway, it's probably trying to stall out on her a lot. She needs new spark plug wires. Probably a factory defect."

"That's what I thought, too. Good catch. I knew I paid you for a reason."

"Maybe cuz you know I'd just steal it from you if you didn't."

Dante gave a derisive snort. "I'd beat you with my cane if you tried."

They fell into a companionable silence after that, working on their respective cars. John completed the tune-up, trying not to imagine her in the driver's seat with black sunglasses on her face and her red hair tossed by the wind, her right hand curved easily around the shift knob. The thought of Claire driving a car like this should have surprised him. It didn't. And it shouldn't have affected him so much to think that he might be taking care of her car, keeping her safe.

It did.

OoOoOoOoOo

John stood beside the red Mustang, wiping the excess grease off his hands with a shop rag. He'd finished the Mustang a long time ago, and had been working on the car with the damaged undercarriage. He'd done about as much as he could do to that car without further consent from the customer, so he was going back to start up the Mustang again. It idled beautifully now, not like before, where the needle of the tachometer would jump up and down constantly while the engine sounded like it wanted to die any minute. Satisfied, he turned the car off and patted the dashboard fondly. Then he got out and went to see what his friend was doing.

Dante was tightening the lugnuts on an old Chevy pickup he had on a lift. The staccato ratcheting sound of the air wrench echoed throughout the garage, beating at John's eardrums.

"Don't you ever take a day off?" John said when he was done. Dante put the air wrench away and pressed the button to lower the lift. The 1959 Chevy Apache touched down gently on the ground. It was powder blue with a few rust splotches on the bed. Dante patted the fender fondly, like he would a faithful steed.

"This isn't business. This is pleasure," he said.

"That's yours?"

"Yep, my brand new baby." John started forward, then walked around the truck, inspecting it. "Don't get any fingerprints on her. That paint is new."

"When did you get it?"

"Last week. Some old guy passed away, and his kids didn't want it, so they sold her to me."

"How much did you pay?"

"Five hundred."

John looked skeptical. "Wow. She's worth at least ten times that amount."

Dante missed the sarcasm. "Yeah, but she sat in a garage for five years. Needed all new gaskets, the tires were dry-rotted, and first gear was stripped."

John snorted. "What a bargain."

Dante ran loving eyes over the truck. "She's worth it." He patted the fender again, then grabbed his cane from where it was leaning against his work cart. "C'mon, let's go get some dinner."

They went up the outside stairs into the apartment above the garage to get cleaned up. Dante had only used the apartment for about a year after he bought the garage, until he felt comfortable enough to buy a house. He still kept it stocked with a few spare changes of clothes, some food and toiletries. Sometimes John stayed there, but not too often. It made him uncomfortable to be surrounded by Dante's life, since there were still boxes of stuff that Dante had yet to transfer to his house. John didn't like the happy family portraits, or the racing trophies, or the yearbooks filled with so many signatures that he could barely tell what color the paper was underneath the ink. It made him angry to look at all that stuff, but sometimes he didn't have anywhere else to go.

They took turns washing up in the small bathroom, then went back downstairs. Dante limped his way into the office and grabbed his amber-handled cane, the one he used only when he wasn't up to his vocal chords in grease.

He'd grabbed something else, too, and suddenly it was flying in the air towards John. He heard a musical clink and saw a flash of metal; instinctively he reached up and caught what Dante had thrown to him. When he opened his hand, he saw it was a set of keys. The Chevy bowtie symbol hung on a chain from the keyring. For a brief second John though Dante was going to say, "Take her, she's yours." He quickly squashed the accompanying emotion. Not a chance.

"Hungry?" Dante said, confirming John cynicism. Dante would never just give him a car. He'd definitely have to earn it.

But this was the first time Dante ever suggested that John should drive.

He unlocked the driver's side door and slid onto the split white vinyl-covered bench seat, then reached across the cab and pulled up on the other lock so Dante could get in. He did so slowly, painfully, and John was really starting to worry about his friend. He stared at him for a long moment, until Dante looked up. "What?" he said, his expression and his voice conveying annoyance and frustration.

John shook his head. "Nothin." He reached down and turned the key. The engine took a little sweet-talking and a little priming with the gas pedal, but John got her fired up, and they backed out of the bay into the back lot. Dante handed him the keys so he could do the whole routine with unlocking and relocking the back gate.

They were silent during the short trip to the diner. John could feel Dante's irritation, but he didn't quite know the cause of it. He could understand how it could be frustrating to have a certain part of you body hurt every time it rained, but he wasn't usually this pissy.

He also didn't usually use his cane so much.

They had a quiet dinner, then returned to the garage. They talked for a while about the few adjustments Dante would need to make to the truck before it would be gloat-worthy. Then they went upstairs and Dante pulled down his newest bottle of Jim Beam Black, which just happened to be John's favorite whiskey. They sat down in Dante's old, over-stuffed armchairs and took turns taking swigs. John felt the warmth settle through his body after a while, making him light-headed and sleepy. When he looked over at Dante, he noticed that the older man seemed morose and a bit broody.

"What'sa fuck's the matter with you, man? You been PMSin' all day," John slurred.

"Shut up, kid. Drink your fuckin' whiskey." Dante handed the bottle back to John, and he took another swig.

"I love bourbon, man. Goes down smoother than regular whiskey, but it still gets you just as drunk."

Dante reached over and snatched the bottle away. "Give me that. You're too young. Don't want to wind up a fucking drunk like your old man."

"C'mon, Pollyanna, give it back." John took a swipe at the black-labeled bottle and missed, almost falling face-first out of his chair. While John was fighting to keep his balance, Dante tipped his head back and swallowed the last of the liquor.

OoOoOoOoOo

When John woke up, it was dark. He lifted his head from the back of the chair, and regretted it. His vision swam, and there was a dull ache in his neck, a rythmic throbbing that was echoed by the pain behind his eyes. He rested his head in his hands for a few moments, and wound up falling back to sleep. When he woke up again, he couldn't tell how much later it was, but the digital clock across the room said 4:30 am. He had to get up now if he wanted to go home and get changed before school.

Without turning on any lights, John felt his way to the bathroom. After closing the door he flipped on the light switch, wincing as the glare from the bare bulb stabbed at his eyes. He leaned heavily on the sink, turning on the cold water and rinsing out his mouth. It tasted like the inside of a football player's cleat. When he felt a little more awake, he turned on the shower and began undressing. One hot shower later, he still felt like shit, but at least he was clean shit. He put on his old clothes, and caught a whiff of Weasel's apartment.

Dante's loud snores accompanied him out the door.

It was very dark outside, but he knew his way home. He'd wandered this part of town enough that he could navigate it with his eyes shut. It took him about an hour to get home. He let himself in through the front door and moved quietly through the living room and down the hall.

When he got to his bedroom door he pushed it open. It hadn't shut right since his dad had knocked it off the hinges three years ago. _That_ was a memorable fight. It had been the first time he'd ever gotten the better of Bill Bender.

The door swung in, and he stopped it just before it creaked. He looked in. Barely discernible among the charcoal shadows was the vague outline of a dingy wife-beater. John stood in the doorway, not moving, barely breathing. Hoping that he himself was just a vague shadow. Hoping that Big Bender was dead. But then he heard the slow, even rattle that told him his old man was asleep or passed out. John prayed that he was too drunk to fake it.

Creeping into the room, he moved over to his dresser, which stood with half the drawers pulled out and piled high with ratty jeans and old band t-shirts, a few flannel shirts and some sweat pants. He rummaged through them as silently as possible, not really caring what he found as long as it was different from the clothes he'd been wearing for the past two days.

John found a pair of jeans and a random shirt, then reached in the top drawer for clean underwear and socks. When he thought he had some of both in his hand, he crept back out of his room and across the hall into the bathroom. Locking the door, he changed quickly, not even turning the light on. He felt around for the toothbrush he'd hidden under the sink. He found it and held it briefly under the tap then hurriedly scrubbed his teeth. He had to hide it from Big Bender, or the old man would use it for unpleasant things and then put it back like it was untouched.

That was the best he could do in the dark. Slowly, he unlocked the bathroom door. Slowly, he turned the knob. He moved to the side of the doorway so that when he opened the door he wouldn't be an immediate target. Just in case. John inched the door open, and slowly peered out into the hallway. And there was Big Bender, standing in the doorway to John's room.

"Where do you think you're going?" His old man's voice was low and gravelly, harsh from many years of cheap liquor and cheap cigars, and very close in the darkness.

"School."

"You think I'm stupid, don't you? It's fucking Saturday. What are you doing at school on a fucking Saturday?"

"It's Monday, retard."

There was a long pause from his father. Then, "Think you're fucking better than everybody else because you go to school? Think I can't fuck you up just because you go to school?"

John didn't say anything. He just stood there, his body tensed, waiting. Big Bender moved forward and John took a step back, but his dad turned suddenly and shambled off down the hall toward his own bedroom. John allowed himself to breathe again, then went back into his bedroom with all the clothes he had just taken off. Those he shoved into the bottom of his closet.

John made his way to school after that, wandering through the pre-dawn neighborhoods. A few dogs barked at him, and maybe one or two cars passed by on the road, but otherwise he was alone.

And then he stood at the edge of the woods surrounding the football field, a half-smoked cigarette in his hand and his sunglasses in place as the vague gray non-color which preceded dawn slowly leaked away, revealing the brighter, though still limited hues of an early spring morning in a Chicago suburb.

The first bell had yet to ring. He'd never been to school this early before. He blew out a white stream of smoke and looked down at his cigarette. It was mostly gone, almost down to the filter. He got as much as he could out of it, then sighed and flicked it away, shoving both hands into the deep pockets of his old tweed trench coat. He tried to squelch the unfamiliar feelings of excitement and nervousness, didn't understand the anxious flutterings in his chest and stomach.

He lit up another cigarette, hoping it would ease his nerves. It pissed him off. He hated feeling afraid. What the hell was he afraid of? And what the hell was he doing at schoolso goddamn early? John wandered over to the football field and climbed the bleachers, all the way to the top. He stared at the ugly concrete box that was Shermer High School, feeling so many mixed emotions about the place. He hated it, and at the same time, it was a place he had escaped to more times than he could count.

The faint ringing echo of the first bell reverberated across the football field, then died as it hit the trees. John just sat there on the bleachers, smoking his cigarette. It helped a little, calmed his nerves. He flicked some ash off the tip. He couldn't believe he was there. And all because of a girl.


	12. Hang On To Your Ego

**Better Hallway Vision**

**by UnicornPammy**

**A/N: **Yay, new chapter already! This one practically wrote itself (with some help from Kendall). I know it's a little short, but to me it's juuuust right. I find that Brian's voice lives pretty comfortably in my head. So all he has to do is speak, and all I have to do is write it down. Not that I'm bragging or anything. : þ Heh heh. Anyway, enjoy.

Oh, yeah. **Disclaimer:** Mine! Wait, are you sure? But I thought I came up with the whole idea. I didn't? Fine. Not mine. ::pouts::

**Chapter 12: Hang On To Your Ego**

The week had gone by too quickly, and all of a sudden here it was, 11:00am Friday, and Brian was standing in front of an ugly Tudor style building, gazing at the ornate door as if it was Hell's portal. He didn't want to be there, didn't see the point. Last week he wanted to kill himself. Now he didn't. What was wrong with his parents? They didn't understand at all.

Didn't understand that one Saturday morning detention could change your whole life.

If his father hadn't been standing beside him, he probably wouldn't have gone in. But he found himself walking up three steps and putting his hand on the doorknob, his body moving of its own volition. Brian really didn't want to be there, and he cringed as he opened the door and walked inside.

The interior was not as imposing--or as ugly--as the exterior. The foyer was softly lit, with a small console table to one side holding a small fountain that bubbled soothingly, and a Maxfield Parish painting hung on the opposite wall. Brian took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he moved out of the entryway and into what was probably intended as a formal living room, but was now the waiting area. A young man sat behind a large desk made of dark wood. The receptionist looked to be in his mid-twenties. He had short, almost curly brown hair and hazel eyes hiding behind wire-rimmed glasses. His clothing was professional without being dressy, just a green sweater-vest over a white, long-sleeve button-down shirt with blue pinstripes. The sleeves he had rolled up to his elbows, and his hands were flying furiously over a computer keyboard.

The young man looked up when Brian came into the room, and the smile he offered was cool and distant. "Mr. Johnson?"

"Yes," said Brian's dad.

"Brian Johnson?"

His dad nudged him. "Oh, that's me," Brian said.

The young man nodded. "Thank you for being on time. Dr. Byers will see you in just a moment. Please have a seat."

Brian nodded this time, and looked for a place to sit. There were several different chairs lined up against the wall across from the desk, and two were a little more in the middle of the room. Those two were situated on either side of another small console table that was similar in style to the one out in the foyer, but it was a little shorter. Each chair was different, as if someone had gone to a flea market and picked them out at random. Yet somehow they all seemed to go together, to complement each other and the room. Brian chose one set against the wall and farthest from the door, a simple wooden one with a lightly padded leather seat; it was a little uncomfortable. His dad sat beside him in a cushy wingback upholstered in rich green velvet, and picked up a copy of Field and Stream magazine that was sitting on the console table. Brian picked up Popular Science, but was hardly interested. He was too nervous to pay attention to any of the articles. What was this Dr. Byers going to ask him about?

He heard a door open across the room, and he looked up briefly. And there she was. He'd been looking for her all week, but hadn't seen her. Suddenly she was there. Long dark hair, sad gray eyes. It was really her. He watched her walk across the room and stop briefly at the desk. The receptionist smiled at her, and she smiled back. Brian's heart stopped.

She stood there and held a short, quiet conversation with the receptionist. He wanted her to look at him, but he couldn't think of a way to get her attention without drawing attention to himself. So he just followed her with his eyes as she walked toward the foyer, pleading silently with her to look at him. And she did, just before she disappeared from the room. Brian saw a tiny bit of surprise register on her face. She gave him a polite smile, and his heart started again, in double time. And then she was gone. He had gaped at her the entire time. _Stupid!_

"Mr. Johnson?"

Brian whipped his head around, and he saw out of the corner of his eye that his dad looked up as well. But the receptionist was looking at Brian. "Dr. Byers will see you now." He waved a hand at the open door the girl had just walked out of.

They both stood and placed their magazines back on the console table. Brian started toward the door. "Only Brian," he heard the receptionist say. He turned and saw that his dad had started to follow him. At the young man's words, Mr. Johnson turned and sat back down, but not without a look of irritation on his face. Brian continued on toward the open door, his heart beating faster with each step. He really did not want to be there.

OoOoOoOoOo

"So what happened on Monday? After you got to school, I mean. Did any of them talk to you?"

Brian nodded. "Um, well yeah, John did. And Claire did, too. I didn't see Andy. Allison just kind of winked at me. But I saw her during a study period, so we weren't supposed to talk anyway."

Dr. Byers leaned forward, her legal pad balanced on one knee. She tucked a lock of sunny auburn hair behind her ear and straightened her glasses. Brian thought they made her look cute. "What did John and Claire say?"

"Well, John just said hi and tried to take my lunch. And Claire asked me if I'd seen John."

"And how did those conversations make you feel?"

Brian smiled and looked off to the side, remembering. "Well, they weren't really conversations, but they were, um, a beginning, you know? It was like they wanted to talk to me, but they really didn't know what to say, you know? So I thought, that's something, right? And then the next day was better."

"How so?"

"I saw Andy, and he invited me to have lunch with him. With him and some of his friends. I could tell they were weirded out by it, but when Andy told them what happened to my elephant, they started laughing. But not like...not like they were laughing at me, you know? Just like they thought it was funny. And one of the guys said that it happened to him too, that the light wouldn't turn on. I--" Brian felt a sudden burning behind his eyes. He hadn't realized how relieved he'd felt when he heard those words from Andy's friend.

Dr. Byers nodded and scribbled something on her pad. Then she looked up with an encouraging smile. "How did that make you feel?"

Brian tried to swallow the huge lump in his throat, but it wouldn't go away. "Relieved. That I wasn't the only one. That I wasn't stupid because I couldn't make a lamp." _No, you're a genius cause you can't make a lamp._ He smiled.

"What about the rest of the week?" Dr. Byers asked. She looked genuinely interested, almost as if she were listening to someone tell a fascinating story. It made Brian feel good to know that someone cared. That at least one person wouldn't judge him or his decisions. It made him want to tell her everything about himself, about his friends, his family, even the girl he'd met on Sunday and how he'd gone to school each day since hoping to catch a glimpse of her. And not getting one until today.

It slowly dawned on Brian how much he'd been talking. He hadn't wanted to say anything when he came in and sat down. He'd been expecting an ogre of an old man, one who'd tell him he was crazy, or just trying to get attention. But Dr. Byers definitely wasn't an ogre, or an old man. She hadn't told him he was crazy, or accused him of anything. Simply encouraged him to talk about himself. And she hadn't even asked about the gun, though his parents had to have told her about it. She wasn't at all what he expected. Brian snuck a glance at her. She was...wow. She was gorgeous.

But the girl... He wished he could ask about her. But he knew that Dr. Byers wouldn't be able to tell him anything. Probably not even her name. If only he could learn her name.

"Brian?" the good doctor asked.

"Hmm?" He looked up, feeling as if he were waking up from a dream.

"The rest of the week?" she prompted. "How did it go?"

"It went, um, okay." Was that all he could say about it? Okay? But as he thought about it, he realized that after everything that happened to him last week, and over the weekend...when he thought about what he almost did, okay seemed pretty good.

"I hear your parents are pretty upset. How are you doing at home?"

Brian lowered his head, covering his eyes with his hand. He thought about Monday morning, about his mom handing him his lunch sack and thermos and saying only, "Peanut butter and banana." His favorite sandwich. He thought about every morning since then. On the ride to school his dad wouldn't say a word to him, would simply stare straight ahead at the road, sad, silent and exhausted. Even Lisa was quieter now. She wouldn't look at him in the morning when she sat down to eat her cereal.

"I got my wish."

"I'm sorry?"

Brian sniffled and looked up. "I got my wish. I'm in control now." He looked away. "My family, it's like...like it's on its knees. I...I kind of thought it would be liberating but it--I feel more like a prisoner now than I ever did before. I hate it. How could..." He returned his gaze to her. "I'm so insignificant. How could I do that to my parents? My mom should still be yelling at me for acting like an idiot, not tip-toeing around me. It's really...it's scary." He glanced down again, swiped a few errant tears off his cheeks.

"You're feeling guilty, aren't you?" she said gently.

Brian nodded.

"Maybe that means that you are far more important than you realize."

He looked up, a little surprised. She smiled at him. "You're doing great, Brian. I'll see you next week."

Brian nodded again and took a deep breath. He let it out and stood, feeling as if she'd brought him up short. He gave her a weak smile and started toward the door. But something stopped him. He had to try. Had to. He turned back to Dr. Byers.

"Um," he said, and she looked up from writing something down on her legal pad and smiled again, her eyes questioning. "Um, that girl, the one who was in here before me...she ran into me. On Sunday."

"Really?"

"Yeah, she like, literally ran into me. I was wondering..."

Dr. Byers looked skeptical. "You know that I can't tell you anything about her."

Brian nodded. "I know but... Um, well, she didn't even tell me her name. Her first name. I was wondering--"

She just looked at him, one eyebrow crooked and a half smile curving her lips.

He laughed once, softly. "Yeah. I guess not. See you next week." He left her office and shut the door, then jammed his hands into his pockets. His dad wasn't in the waiting room. He walked over to the desk, and the young man looked up at him. Then the phone rang.

"Excuse me for a moment." He lifted the receiver. "Dr. Byers's office." Brian stood there awkwardly as the receptionist listened. He didn't say anything, just "Hmm"-ed a couple of times. "Mm-hmm," he hummed finally, then set the phone down. "Now then. Your father has already paid the fee. Here's the note to give to your school for getting out early today."

Brian accepted the note and turned away. He opened it up to read it.

_To whom it may concern,_

_Please excuse Dana R. Hurley--_

He stopped reading. He could feel his face turning red. He went back towards the desk. "This isn't mine." The receptionist held out his hand for the paper Brian held. He retrieved it and glanced at it.

"Oh, yes. Sorry. Looks like Dana forgot her note." He shuffled some papers on his desk, then picked up one that was lying right on top of everything. "My mistake. This one's yours." He sounded bored.

Brian could feel his face getting redder, and he floated out of the waiting room, through the foyer, and out to the parking lot where his dad waited in the car. Dana. Wow. Yeah, she looked like a Dana.

"Hungry, son?" Mr. Johnson asked, the first couple of words his dad had said to him in a long time. And even though Brian hadn't really felt very hungry at all the past week, he nodded. He'd had this feeling of living in a different dimension the past few days. There was this image in his head of the doors to the library being like a wormhole in space. You think once you go in that when you leave you'll be in the same place you were before. But he knew he would never be in that place again. There he was, not at school on a Friday afternoon, about to have lunch with his dad who should be at work. This was where the wormhole dropped him off; he might as well make the most of it.

* * *

**A/N: **I stole the good doctor's name from the X-Files. Byers is my favorite Lone Gunman. : ) Don't sue me. 


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